


I Pledge My Life Unto (only) You

by redqueenequilibrium



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Divergence - Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 143,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redqueenequilibrium/pseuds/redqueenequilibrium
Summary: Faerghus is a kingdom beholden to chivalry.  Duty informs choice.  Your King comes before all else.  Even knowing this, Sylvain chooses Felix.AU where Felix is recruited to the Black Eagle House at the academy and Sylvain wasn't, but Sylvain follows him to the Empire anyway.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 101
Kudos: 112





	1. Arrival of the Fool

**Great Tree Moon  
** **1183**  
 **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

He arrived a week ago at midday.

A solitary figure atop a dark grey destrier, a lance with the head and half the shaft wrapped heavily in a dirty white canvas cloth, riding at a leisurely pace up the winding ascending road leading straight to the main gates of the imperial occupied Garreg Mach Monastery.

Alone.

“And then he _what_?” Felix asks, after releasing his borrowed horse to the care of one of the imperial monastery stable hands, hastening his pace through the marketplace, marching with determination through to the entrance hall. He’s expected to make a report to Ferdinand upon his return from his latest scouting mission, and initially had been in no rush to do so, but with this latest bit of gossip Dorothea was so eager to impart that she’d intercepted him at the monastery gates, it’s prudent, perhaps, to walk a little faster.

“He announced himself!” Dorothea declares with a wave of her arm, a habitual movement ingrained in her mannerisms from years upon years of theatrical training. Despite his hurried march, she keeps pace with ease, steps light despite her heeled shoes and flowing dress, perhaps aided by a certain weightlessness afforded with her magic. “When they asked ‘Halt! Who goes there?’” she pitches her voice low and harsh, every bit the showperson, “They say he spread his arms and replied, ‘My name is Sylvain Jose Gautier, from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. I am here to join the Imperial army!’”

Felix stops abruptly in the doorway of the reception hall. Dorothea’s step carries her just a bit further, and she spins round to face him, “He-- Wh--,” Felix stumbles over what exactly he wants to say in the face of such a ludicrous statement, “There’s no way he said that.”

“I wasn’t there, personally,” Dorothea concedes with a bit of a sheepish grimace, “but I’m well informed on the gossip here. And you know how Sylvain is.”

“No, I don’t,” Felix says evenly, meeting her gaze, before his own darts elsewhere, to the reception hall doorway, the paved stone floor, “Not anymore.”

It’s been two years since war broke out in Fódlan, with the two on opposing sides. Two moons more since Felix spoke with Sylvain last. People change. Felix has changed. It would be foolish to assume Sylvain hasn’t.

“In any case,” Dorothea continues, her voice gentle, taking a step forward into the reception hall, and carrying onward when Felix follows, “I thought you should know. You were close friends, back when...” she pauses, a rare struggle to find the word she wants, “Before.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

“Are you going to go see him?” Dorothea asks, when they round the corner at the end of the hall, heading towards the staircase to the second floor of the monastery’s main building.

“Have you?” Felix fires back, stopping at the threshold to the staircase, one foot on the first step. He’s not ready to think about if he wants to see Sylvain, much less if he’s ready to. He’s not even sure if he quite believes Sylvain is here, somewhere, in the monastery at all, the ridiculous story relayed by Dorothea aside. It’s easier to turn the question back on her instead.

“I don’t know where they’re keeping him,” Dorothea responds, sadly, wringing her hands together, “Ferdie said... well. For something like this... Hubie should be arriving from Enbarr to decide what to do with him next.”

Felix frowns. A cautious approach. It’s appropriate, for such a high profile defector of Faerghus, assuming Sylvain has really defected, and this isn’t a long game play in the war. Isolating him from the rest of the Imperial army stationed at Garreg Mach while they ascertain his loyalties and decide what to do with him is the most logical approach. If Felix were in charge, it’s what he would do.

At the same time, it’s Sylvain, and Felix doesn’t like to think of him as a threat. Even being on opposite sides of the war until now, Felix has never seen Sylvain in battle, nor heard of any of his exploits, besides his continuing work in the northern reaches of Faerghus holding the border against Sreng and the occasional feat of war on the Western front, far from Felix’s assigned hunting grounds. He’s never had to seriously consider Sylvain as an enemy combatant beyond the abstract understanding that they’re on opposite sides of the war.

Hubert isn’t known for faith or leniency. He might decide Sylvain is better off dead.

The thought causes an nauseating clench in his chest.

“You should visit him,” Dorothea says, resting a gentle hand on his forearm, bringing his attention back to her.

Felix shakes his head with a sound of disbelief, trying to dispel the discomfort in his chest, “I’m the last person here that would be allowed to speak to him.”

As a defector from Faerghus himself and a known long time friend of Sylvain, he has the least to offer the leadership regarding any objective opinions on Sylvain’s trustworthiness. Speaking with him would do nothing but force Sylvain and himself to confront the dense web of tension between them that an abrupt separation of two long time friends and two years of war has caused. They’d probably just argue and nobody would learn anything about Sylvain’s intentions in Garreg Mach.

But he wants.

Oh, he _wants_ \- with a dull ache long nurtured by two years spent burying as many of his feelings as he could regarding his life before the war, deep inside himself, and hoping they didn’t flower - to see Sylvain if he’s really here, and this isn’t all a huge cosmic joke at his expense. He’s spent two years at war trying not to think of the life and people he had before the war, learning to suppress the homesickness he’s brought upon himself when he made that choice to follow Edelgard and his own convictions in the dark of the Holy Tomb two years ago, but he’d be lying if he said he learned how to not miss Sylvain.

Dorothea smiles, “I think they’d let you see him.”

Felix opens his mouth to retort, but Dorothea interrupts him, her green eyes bright.

“He asked for you, you know.”

Felix’s mouth snaps shut with a click and his heart stutters in its beat before a vague sense of unease settles in his gut. His brow furrows, betraying his discomfort.

“It’s... not common knowledge,” Dorothea says, conspiratorially, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “But since it concerns you, I thought you would appreciate the heads up before Ferdie springs it on you,” she looks a little guilty, as if she isn’t supposed to either know that piece of information or that she isn’t supposed to have shared it.

It could mean anything. Perhaps Sylvain asked to see him because he thinks appealing to another traitor to Faerghus will make his case easier to plead to imperial leadership. Maybe the request is a contrived attempt at assassination and Sylvain’s true purpose here is to kill the shameless stain on the legacy of Fraldarius for daring to spit on four hundred years of loyalty to his King: the most grievous insult to the Kingdom of Faerghus by a highborn lord since the kingdom’s founding.

Or... maybe Sylvain wants a chance to give Felix a piece of his mind; wants to get the chance to air his anger and hurt over the betrayal Felix had committed against him and his country with no warning; after two years away, the wound inflicted on their friendship festering until it was unbearable, driving him south to make a fool of himself at the gates of Garreg Mach.

‘ _Or maybe_ ,’ that homesick little seedling inside his heart whispers, ‘ _he’s missed you as much as you’ve missed him too_ ’.

It could be any of those reasons and every possibility makes his gut _churn_.

Dorothea seems to realize his uncertainty, patting his arm awkwardly, “You should speak with Ferdie,” she says apologetically, “I’ve kept you too long.”

Felix nods stiffly, turning towards the stairs.

“Come find me at dinner,” Dorothea calls as he ascends, “We can talk, if you’d like.”

Felix doesn’t respond, focused on moving forward, head a mess of thoughts, about Sylvain, his reasons for being here, and the mission report he’s supposed to deliver, scrambled into oblivion by what Dorothea has told him.

Sylvain is here in Garreg Mach.

He left the Kingdom - his responsibilities in Gautier, his friends in Fhirdiad, his loyalties supposedly to the wind - and made his way south to announce himself to the Imperial army at Garreg Mach.

A fool approaching an army stronghold with no battalion, no missive, and no pretense; with only his horse, his armour, and his lance to support him.

For the briefest moment, a fond exasperation makes itself known, before it again is buried under the restless churn of apprehension, anxiety, uncertainty.

How phenomenally stupid of him.

**~o.O.o~**

When Emperor Edelgard stripped House Aegir of power and placed Duke Ludwig von Aegir under strict house arrest after her coronation, Ferdinand lost all that tied him to the nobility he was so proud of save his name, his crest, and the history tied to both: the crimes of the father unfortunately bearing consequences on the son.

Regardless, Ferdinand’s noble heart, unwavering loyalty to Adrestia despite the loss of his house, and his earnest determination to both challenge and support the Emperor’s vision and ideas made him enough of a trusted ally in her eyes and even, begrudgingly, in the eyes of her ornery retainer. His education as the son of the former Prime Minister, lifelong training for political manoeuvring and leadership and his proficiency in combat simply supplemented his competency.

Edelgard wanted somebody she trusted to act as the leading general at Garreg Mach. The central location within Fódlan and importance in history makes the monastery both a strategic stronghold in matters of warfare and morale, and its continuing occupation by Imperial troops acts as an enduring symbol of the Adrestian Empire’s ultimate goal to eradicate the power of the Church of Seiros in Fódlan. Most importantly, it is the most likely place for Professor Byleth to return to, should she re-emerge, if she’s alive.

As Hubert would not leave her side for long periods of time, and she, as Emperor, could not remain permanently at Garreg Mach, Edelgard eventually entrusted command of the monastery and the small army assigned to it to Ferdinand von Aegir.

Ferdinand always insists on tea, when Felix returns to report from whatever mission he’s taken last. Since he was bestowed the position of leadership at the monastery, Ferdinand takes his responsibilities incredibly seriously - relaying orders he receives from Enbarr with great care and attention to detail - but maintains a personable, affable touch to leadership. Unwilling to spend all his time locked away in the office that once belonged to the assistant to the archbishop on the second floor of the main building, Ferdinand frequently wanders the entirety of the monastery: finding time to get to know fellow imperial army leadership, tending to his beloved horses at the stables, and, of course, maintaining his friendships with fellow members of Edelgard’s favoured Black Eagle Strike Force who happen to be visiting or are stationed permanently at Garreg Mach. Oftentimes, this means frequent requests to take tea.

Felix isn’t one for sitting idle to chat and Ferdinand concedes to spar with him occasionally, as a fellow connoisseur of weaponry and willing participant to better his own combat ability, but, as of late, he has decided to make a habit of forcing Felix to take tea as part of his work, given Felix’s adamant refusal to partake in their free time.

It’s become almost a game between them, since Edelgard stationed Felix at Garreg Mach, knowing his restlessness for combat and standoffish Faerghan bluntness wouldn’t mesh well with Enbarr political machinations; not to mention the optics of his presence so close to the Emperor as a high profile defector from the Kingdom with which the Empire is engaged in war. He and Ferdinand have been taking part in an escalation of unspoken patterns of behaviour without verbally acknowledging what the other is trying to do - Felix trying to avoid sitting for tea, Ferdinand aggressively using the power of courtesy and social obligation ingrained in Felix’s noble upbringing to encourage him to take part anyway.

When Felix returns from whatever mission he took last from Ferdinand’s meticulous logbook of required tasks - updated frequently with missives from Enbarr - he refuses to sit when Ferdinand invites him to his office.

In response, Ferdinand doesn’t look at him and pretends he’s not ready to give him his attention as his commander until after he’s brewed the tea and placed two settings for a proper tea party, sitting down and staring pointedly until Felix caves.

Felix sits but doesn’t drink any of it.

Ferdinand tuts at the waste of good tea, but somehow finds out what Felix’s preferred blends are and has one of them steeped and ready at the next meeting, the enticing smell tempting Felix to sit and indulge, offering a cookie before Felix starts his report.

And so on.

At this point, Felix thinks, when Ferdinand sets down a fresh-made plate of meat-filled pastries on the table instead of the customary sweet buttery cookies and sugar coated scones, Ferdinand is probably winning.

The paladin knows it too, smiling brightly when Felix’s stomach growls as he sits across from him, dropping his travel pack to the side by his chair, and begrudgingly reaches for one of the pastries.

He settles in his seat, taking in the scent of the tea while Ferdinand shuffles his papers and gets his affairs in order before he gives him his full attention. It’s Almyran pine needle today, a welcome treat: as an import from eastern Alliance territories, the war has made it difficult to obtain in Adrestian occupied lands. Felix hasn’t had the pleasure of drinking it in a long time and he sorely needs a comforting indulgence - something to relax himself - given the news Dorothea so eagerly, but gracelessly, dumped on him before he even had the chance to report in and clean himself up.

The fact that Ferdinand, as a known aficionado of tea, has broken open the package for no special occasion while this variety of tea is so scarce with no chance its availability will improve - and while he’s fully aware Felix is also partial to the more easily obtained four-spice blend - means he’s trying to appeal to Felix before they’ve even begun to speak: a worrying sign.

Felix can guess what he’s nervous about.

“Let me first say before we proceed,” Ferdinand states, as soon as he’s done fiddling with his papers and brings his teacup in place before him, reaching for the pot to pour, first for Felix, then himself, “Welcome back, Felix. I hope your mission went well.”

Felix nods, once, in response, taking a large bite out of the pastry in his hand.

Ferdinand doesn’t let his petty refusal to abide by Adrestian tea party rules, where it’s courteous to take a sip of tea after the host pours _before_ sampling the accompanying tea biscuits, dim the wide smile on his handsome face.

Felix finishes the pastry, reaching for the teacup to first take in the scent of its aroma, enjoying the thrum of satisfaction the scent awakens in his mind, before taking a sip, savouring the taste of it before setting the cup down as he swallows.

It’s been so long since his last cup of good Almyran pine needle. The last memory the aroma brings to mind strongly had been his birthday late in their academy year, caving to the Professor’s stubborn yet sincere request he join her for tea. Since then he’s brewed it for himself maybe two or three times in the privacy of his room at the monastery on particularly bad days as the war raged on, but his own proficiency at the art of making tea has never been something to brag about. Ferdinand, gratingly cheerful in demeanor and doggedly persistent in chasing Felix down to take part in noble social compulsions, _never_ makes a bad cup of tea.

Once he’s done taking part in the niceties of tea, Felix leans back, crosses his arms, and recites the verbal report he’s spent the five days composing in his mind during his travel back to Garreg Mach from the heart of Gloucester territory. Two weeks he spent in the region, listening in on Alliance troops in scattered inns, taverns, and outposts and to the gossip of merchants who provide a wealth of information when tempted with the possibility of someone willing to pay more for their wares than they’re worth. Posing as a mercenary, he’d wandered along the Kingdom-Alliance border himself, cataloging the complex intra-alliance posturing between its self-interested lords, trying to see where Empire troops could travel unhindered through Gloucester, since the Count had made it clear, with the Empire’s occupation of the Great Bridge of Myrrdin, that he would not hinder imperial movements in his region so long as their ultimate destination lay in the Kingdom, and his own people were left alone.

With the focus of the Empire on Kingdom and Church forces actively fighting back against Adrestia’s movements, Emperor Edelgard and her ministers had agreed to honour that demand from Count Gloucester for now and allow the Alliance their passive defense of their territory. At least until a more advantageous position for Adrestia could be secured, which is likely only if they manage to push the center line up through Charon and keep it there, or if Count Bergliez succeeds in taking Arianrhod on the western front.

Felix lays out the key observations he’s made on his two week scout, and Ferdinand takes note: Gloucester’s troops spread throughout his region, ordered to report any imperial movement and intervene with imperial action only if Gloucester citizens are endangered. Daphnel troops watching the Gloucester border closely, to ensure no imperial troops slip deeper into Alliance territory. The complete disregard Gloucester has for the border he shares with Charon, as if he’s certain Kingdom troops would not cross the passable mountain range to enter Alliance territory while the Kingdom is engrossed with the Empire in the war.

Or, perhaps, Ferdinand suggests, to allow Gloucester plausible deniability to Charon, should imperial troops decide to invade Charon from Gloucester, and pincer them from two sides - the south and the east.

Ferdinand listens intently, as he always does, and politely inquires for greater detail or Felix’s opinion, as if what Felix is reporting is of the greatest importance despite the fact it must be perhaps the twentieth such report Ferdinand has received in the past week, and not even one of the more interesting ones. The eastern front between the Empire and the Alliance is aggressively stable, in great contrast to the ever shifting mess of the western and central fronts, where warfare against the Kingdom moves the front lines back and forth in an endless waltz of death and dying.

By the end of his report, he and Ferdinand have finished the pot of tea, the candle under the teapot snuffed once there’s no need to keep the contents warm, and once Ferdinand has run out of questions and prompts to elaborate, an awkward silence takes hold of the office space.

Usually, Felix would take the opportunity to leave, obligations fulfilled, eager to stop sitting around and get out of the stuffy office, perhaps do a few bouts on the training grounds before he visits the monastery bathhouse, grabs a late meal, and retires for bed. Today, however, there’s a pressing concern that’s been calling for his attention, growing ever more insistent in his gut the closer to the end of his report he gets, making itself known in the agitated tap of boot on the ground, the clench of his fingers in sleeve.

Ferdinand is no better. Despite having given his full attention to Felix’s report, by the end he looks a little nervous, smile just a little tighter than the norm considering the lack of urgent information he’s just heard, and, perhaps most telling, he doesn’t dismiss Felix once he’s done, looking down at his page of notes, tapping the nub of his quill on the paper, the ink long dried.

They simply sit, facing each other for a moment longer: Felix staring Ferdinand down, and, for once, Ferdinand unable to keep meeting his eyes for longer than five seconds at a time.

“I suppose,” Ferdinand cracks, after the awkwardness of their silence becomes too much for him, “Perhaps you have heard of what transpired,” he says, slowly, as if gathering his thoughts as he speaks.

Felix’s brow twitches at the deliberate vagueness of his words, “Tell me anyway,” he says flatly.

Ferdinand meets his gaze again in an exasperated motion no doubt aware of who jumped at the chance to share gossip, the tension of the moment lost as his shoulders fall, “Really now, there’s no need to repeat what you know! I’m sure _someone_ has--”

“I want to hear it from you,” Felix interrupts, “You’re the one in charge.”

Ferdinand sighs, straightens in his seat, and nods, “Very well,” he says, and obliges, “One week ago, the gatekeeper sent for me and informed me a man had ridden up to the front gates of the monastery. Now, this isn’t out of the ordinary. Garreg Mach, of course, receives many refugees-”

“Von Aegir,” Felix interrupts, his patience already beginning to thin.

Ferdinand takes a breath, gathering his thoughts, then opens his mouth and gets to the point, “The gatekeeper told me the man had announced himself as the heir to House Gautier and that he had come to... join the Imperial army.”

Felix gives a short snort of disbelief, “So he really did announce himself,” he mutters. “Unbelievable.”

Ferdinand must agree, because his mouth twitches into a wry smile, “So I’m told,” he nods, “In any case, given the ongoing conflict with the Kingdom, the, ah... supposed... defection of such a prominent noble heir from the Kingdom to the Empire is a delicate matter.”

“I’m sure,” Felix says, dryly, though he would never call Sylvain ‘delicate’ in stature and certainly not in action.

“I chose to remain cautious,” Ferdinand continues, “He did arrive alone, with only his horse, his lance, and what appears to be belongings for travel; all of which we’ve put into holding. Regardless, since his arrival I’ve sent a message to Enbarr by messenger owl and doubled patrols in the lands surrounding the monastery. So far... it does appear he arrived alone.

“As for his intentions...” he pauses, then glances downward in reminiscence, “Well, as far as I remember from our academy days, Sylvain has never shown aptitude nor inclination for... underhanded tactics,” he wrinkles his nose, “But it would be an act of utter carelessness to underestimate him,” his gaze jumps back up to meet Felix’s; even, steady, “He has always had a clever head on his shoulders, even if his efforts never seemed to match his potential. In the two years since we’ve seen him last, I’m sure he has had the aptitude to learn. Certainly, the war would have served a good motivator.”

Felix leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He wasn’t aware Ferdinand had ever paid Sylvain any mind during their time in the officers’ academy - the two hadn’t appeared to have anything in common besides their love of riding and their proficiencies in lances and axes. Still, he has to respect Ferdinand’s astute assessment. He may be a bit of an overenthusiastic dandy, but day by day he proves he’s every bit the thoughtful noble he proclaims himself to be, and an insightful leader all the same.

“Dorothea said he asked for me,” Felix says to the front of the desk, struggling to look Ferdinand in the eye when he asks. It’s awkward to say: embarrassing.

Not a good look, perhaps, to show an imperial general his concern for a Kingdom lord, even supposing said lord has defected to their side.

“He did,” Ferdinand responds, not at all making known he’s aware of Felix’s trepidation, or perhaps, politely ignoring it, being the way he is, “I feel I know what you want to ask, and,” he gives a short hum, “Pardon my hesitation, Felix, but I’m afraid I don’t feel comfortable acquiescing to a request from you to meet him.”

Felix looks up at him, “I wasn’t going to ask.”

Ferdinand’s smile is gentle, and Felix frowns when he sees it, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

Felix looks away.

“I assure you, Felix,” he rushes to say, quick to reassure him, “It’s not because I don’t trust you. You have proven yourself many times over with your loyalty and dedication to Her Majesty’s goals. I am proud to call you a friend,” he says, firmly, no room for Felix’s uncertainties to take root or for his anger to be stirred by unintentional insult, “The reason I can’t allow you to see Sylvain is for your sake.”

Felix looks back at Ferdinand, tilting his head in question. For his sake?

“There is a possibility,” Ferdinand continues, slowly, considering his words carefully, “That Sylvain has come with the intention to... eliminate traitors to the Kingdom.”

Felix sits up straight, “Sylvain,” he says, flatly, then he scoffs, “You can’t be serious. That makes no sense, even if Sylvain wanted to!” Even if the boar were so mad as to try a stunt like this, Sylvain would be one of the last he would push to play the bait alone; to travel all the way from the northern reaches to Garreg Mach. Margrave Gautier would never have allowed it - not at the risk of his one and only crest-bearing son.

And of course, if assassination was his goal he couldn't possibly be idiotic enough to approach the monastery front gate in the way he did to attempt it.

“Still,” Ferdinand says, with a shake of his head, “As long as the possibility exists, I’m not comfortable entertaining the risk. I received word yesterday that Hubert intends to come to question Sylvain himself. He has been looking into the matter himself from his own channels. Once he’s had the chance to assess Sylvain Gautier’s loyalties for himself, then we can... consider allowing you two to speak.”

It’s an infuriatingly reasonable plan of action on Ferdinand’s part. Even if Felix had the energy, after five days travel, to dispute it, it’s unlikely he’d be able to think of any coherent argument that would be halfway convincing. As he’d thought when Dorothea had mentioned it, Ferdinand’s approach is what he would do, were he in charge.

He’s not, so it doesn’t matter anyway.

“So he’s still here,” Felix says, instead, letting the matter drop.

“Well, yes,” Ferdinand responds, blinking as if taken aback by Felix’s sedate response and lack of argument, “Letting him leave is, well, foolish! We are at war. And moving him to Enbarr is out of the question, the use of manpower and resources aside, if he does have nefarious purposes, putting him within reach of Imperial ministers, or Goddess forbid, the Emperor herself would be an act of utmost stupidity. I’m not an idiot, Felix,” Ferdinand declares with a quirk of his brow, “At least, I like to think I’m not.”

Felix barks out a laugh; a nervous, brief sound.

Ferdinand grins, pleased to have his joke land, then sobers up with a firm set of his mouth, “Please, Felix,” he says, quietly, “I know I cannot control you, but I ask you, as your commander: do not go looking for where we’ve put him.”

“Don’t worry,” Felix assures him, crossing his arms and looking past him out the window, “I’m not in the mood.”

The paladin’s mouth turns down. He doesn’t believe him, probably, but he doesn’t beleaguer the point, nodding once and reaching for his papers again, a sign of dismissal.

“Is he...” Felix blurts out, then hesitates, when Ferdinand looks back up at him, “Does he...” Felix bites his lip, and tries again, “Is he alright?” he asks, quietly.

Ferdinand’s eyes soften their hard edge, his lips taking the shape of a reassuring smile, “Last I saw him, he appeared well.”

Felix nods absently, “...That’s good,” he murmurs.

Ferdinand is nothing but honest. The confirmation that Sylvain, at least, by Ferdinand’s standards - and they are not low - is more or less well is good enough to settle the unease momentarily.

At least until Hubert arrives at Garreg Mach again.

Felix stands, shouldering his travel pack, making to leave.

“I know the two of you were... close,” Ferdinand says, when Felix places his hand on the door, “Would you.. happen to have any idea what could possess him to come to Garreg Mach in this manner?”

Felix turns his head towards Ferdinand and shakes it, “Nothing besides what you’ve already considered.”

Sylvain could be telling the truth. Sylvain could be telling a lie. If it’s a lie, he either came here on orders from his King, or he did it for himself.

That’s what it boils down to.

“Is there a chance...” Ferdinand ventures, “He could be sincere with his desire to join the Empire?”

Felix looks away, “I don’t know,” he admits.

Two years and two moons since he’s seen his Sylvain last. It’s a lot of time to change. Perhaps even into someone unrecognizable; after all, it had taken the boar less than one fateful day in his maiden battle to do exactly that.

A part of him believes, maybe, that he knows Sylvain’s motivations even now, because he’s been a constant in his life, and consistent in his behaviours, at least towards him. Those motivations can’t be wicked, because Sylvain has never considered being wicked to Felix, no matter how upset they’ve been with each other, even when they fought - not beyond the impulsive acts and hurtful words in the heat of the moment. Making and enacting plans to hurt Felix, to wound him, would never cross Sylvain’s mind.

But the practical man Felix is also knows he can’t claim to understand Sylvain fully, and to believe he knows with any certainty what he is thinking is tantamount to lying to himself.

And Felix hates lying to himself.

Ferdinand leans back in his seat, leafing idly through his papers, the two of them mulling over the silence.

“I’ve never been an enthusiast of the way Hubert thinks,” he says, suddenly, when Felix turns back towards the door.

Felix frowns at the non sequitur, turning to face Ferdinand fully, hand still resting on the edge of the door.

“So many possibilities to consider to every action, an endless list of contingencies upon contingencies, all that work to construct plans that may never see fruition,” Ferdinand sighs, “Perhaps I lack his focus to be so meticulous, but I suppose that’s why Emperor Edelgard gave him the power to work as a spymaster, while I work on much more straightforward affairs.”

He stands, settling his papers in his arms, rounding the desk to approach Felix, without the buffer of the desk between them. Felix lets him approach, watching him back as he parses through the words being said.

“I’ve always prescribed to the idea that in a situation of uncertainty, usually the most simple reason is the one that makes the most sense.”

Felix blinks.

“Felix,” Ferdinand asks, “What do you believe is the simplest reason for Sylvain to come?”

“The simplest reason, huh...” Felix considers, his gaze drifting to the side as he thinks.

Sylvain has always proclaimed to his conquests that he is a complicated man, to excuse his poor behaviour and create problems where there aren’t any so they learn he’s not worth the trouble to commit to. To Felix, who arguably knows him best, he’s as straightforward as any Faerghus nobleman. Since they were boys who didn’t know any better, fresh from their first brush with death, linking their fingers together and murmuring a binding vow they didn’t know the weight of, Sylvain has always lived up to what he promised as his dearest, closest friend.

Ferdinand waits, patiently, as he sorts through his thoughts.

“That’s easy,” Felix replies, eventually, in the quiet of the room, the words more for himself than to Ferdinand before him.

It’s the same reason it always is with Sylvain, when he appears without being sought. A reliable presence in his life, constantly showing up without being asked, when he’s needed and especially when he isn’t, to hold out a hand when Felix stands alone. Always following when Felix steps just too far out of reach, even if it takes him a little time to do so.

“He’s here for me.”


	2. To Speak or Not To Speak (of it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix knows everyone will want him to talk about it so he decides he just won't talk at all.

Felix feels unbalanced when he leaves the main building. Restless. Jumpy. The sense of dread that worried him about Sylvain’s well being has been soothed by Ferdinand’s assurance that he appeared well, despite what must be, no doubt, a week so far of imprisonment somewhere in the monastery. However, in its place, a disquiet he has trouble identifying the reason for has made its home.

Sylvain is likely here because of him; assuming Ferdinand’s guess at the simplest reason for his foolhardy escapade is the one that is true. Felix isn’t sure how he should feel about that - flattered? Relieved, that Sylvain may yet still care for him, despite his betrayal and lack of correspondence since? Scared, perhaps, of what it means for Sylvain to abandon everything he knows and loves in the name of seeing Felix again?

Guilt, that Sylvain’s impulsive desire to see him may end in his untimely death in the name of paranoia in the fog of war?

He’s in no mood to talk about any of his thoughts but darts through the dining hall nonetheless, catching Dorothea’s eye from across the hall and shaking his head once, his mouth a grim line as he strides through. She tilts her head, acknowledging his silent request, and turns away, re-engaging the imperial mage seated beside her in dinnertime conversation. Felix sniffs and walks out the other side, heading for the old student dormitories where he still makes use of his old assigned room.

He’s silently grateful to Dorothea. Despite her sociable nature and her love of gossip, she recognizes at least his boundaries on the matter after two, almost three years as classmates and allies on the same side in war. She won’t be following up with him for today at least.

It’s early in the evening, the setting sun casting the monastery in a rapidly fading warm golden light. He marches quickly past the fishing pond, the open greenhouse, and into the side entrance to the dormitories, taking the stairs two at a time, avoiding the gaze of everyone milling around the area, not keen on being stopped.

From there he moves as if in a trance, his motions instinctual: unlocking his room, walking in and dropping his bag, setting his swords gently against his wall before removing his sword belt and tossing it carelessly on his desk. Gathering his supplies to wash and a change of clothes, he makes his way to the bathhouse to clean himself up. It’s been five days since his last proper stay at an inn, and despite occasional dips in streams and rivers since then, it doesn’t feel right to delay taking a proper bath when the amenities are available to him.

The dinner hour means the monastery bathhouse is all but empty, only one or two other individuals present in their own stalls or standing around the change room as he takes a quick, but sufficiently cleansing bath. He washes off the grit of travelling dust and sweat, soaping his hair, and works out the tangles as much as he is able.

It’s been a while since his hair was last trimmed, he notes, after he’s changed into his nightclothes, yanking at the knots he missed with his comb, taking a good long look at himself in the mirror. His hair still isn’t long enough for his tastes - only just barely long enough to tie back in a pathetically stubby tail - and his choppy bangs continue to menace his vision. He’s been relying on pins to keep his hair back and he’s been losing too many of them as of late. It may be time to allow Bernadetta another go at his hair to at least clean up the mess falling in his eyes.

The sun has set fully by the time he emerges from the baths, the torches throughout the monastery starting to be lit, the sky a deepening royal blue, the wink of the brightest stars starting to show themselves without the sun to hide them. The moon is bright, only starting to wane, lighting the paths where the light of the torches don’t reach.

Briefly, he considers the idea of braving the dining hall to grab a quick meal but ultimately decides against it, marching quickly back to his room. He doesn’t feel particularly hungry, having eaten the plate of meat-filled pastries Ferdinand had provided over tea, and, more importantly, he doesn’t want to entertain the idea of being around people, facing scrutiny by other imperial officers and soldiers, other Black Eagles, friends and allies, while he’s carrying around a cloud of uncertainty and the weight of information he feels he should keep to himself.

Even alone in the privacy of his room, he feels the prickle of the curiosity of others, knowing Sylvain’s arrival at Garreg Mach is no secret, given his asinine announcement of himself with his arrival. His past association with the Gautier heir has never been a secret, and even if the friendships of noble heirs isn’t the common man’s discussion fodder, there’s enough people at the monastery who are aware of the length, if not the depths, of their childhood friendship to make Felix worry acutely about being approached to discuss his feelings on the matter.

His thoughts about Sylvain are inarticulate, cloudy, difficult to voice beyond the churn of shifting uncertainty, waves of anxiety, excitement, guilt, and other undefined feelings beating against the shores of his conscious thoughts. Sylvain and his presence, locked away in the monastery somewhere, has planted a flag in his brain, calling for the attention of everyone who lay eyes on him.

The smart thing would be to take an early night, to sleep and recover from the exhaustion of travel. He hadn’t allowed himself much sleep on the road, wary, as a solitary traveler, of bandits and beasts, and hyper aware of the responsibility of caring for a horse liable to spook and take off without him in the dark. So take an early night is what he does, dumping his clothes in the hamper in his room, nudging his travel pack over his desk chair to deal with tomorrow, and slides under the covers of his bed.

Felix tries to sleep as much as he can; closing his eyes in the dark and counting repeating cycles of seven, breathing in, holding, breathing out.

It doesn’t work. His thoughts are too frenetic, even if he can’t grasp them long enough in his mind’s eye to turn them into communicable ideas. He lays there, frowning in the dark for what feels like hours but may have merely been agonizing minutes extended in time before he shoves the covers off and sits up.

He dresses swiftly in the dark, lit only by the moonbeams through his window, pulling on a black sleeveless turtleneck, a white overshirt, his pants, and his boots, still covered in dust. Tying his hair back blindly, he grabs his sword belt off his desk, fastening it before grabbing one of his blades at random and sliding it in place by his side. Then, he strides out of his room at a brisk pace, shutting the door behind him, and stalks down the hall to exit the dormitories.

He stops first at the training grounds, shoving through the heavy door and stopping at the edge of the sandy grounds, hand on his sword, considering. The grounds are empty, at this hour, a few training dummies set up on the periphery, racks of wooden and blunted iron weapons organized where they stand.

It’s tempting to fall into sword drills, alone with only the moon shining down through the open roof, but it feels too easy to do that, working through practiced forms. He still feels too unsettled and doesn’t want to fall into easy patterns, giving his thoughts too much space to wander while he does it. He needs an opponent to challenge him, to force the entirety of his anxious brain to focus on a single goal, to chase away the fog of worry colouring all his thoughts.

There aren’t many people he can think of who would accept a training bout at this hour, much less any who could challenge him to work up a good sweat. Ferdinand is busy and too sensible to accept a challenge when he’s aware Felix has just arrived back at Garreg Mach from a long mission. Bernadetta isn’t fond of sparring and her weapon proficiencies are a poor match for his own. He’s reluctant to fight her besides; her timid demeanor and skittish nature is contagious and makes him nervous as well, and he feels silly every time she inevitably flees and it becomes a trial and a half to approach her in any other context afterwards. Of other Black Eagles, Caspar would have been the best option, but he’s not at Garreg Mach. Away in the west with Ashe, he and a small force of empire troops are clearing out what’s left of the battered Western Church and assimilating the territory that's just out of reach of Arianrhod into Adrestian hands.

Felix leaves the grounds as swiftly as he entered them, first returning to his dormitory room, rooting through his travel pack for a dagger and swapping it with the one currently sitting in the sheath in the cuff of his boot. Once that’s done he leaves his room again, striding towards the stairs to the sauna, and ducks into the alley behind them where a hidden passage can be found into the extensive network of labyrinthine tunnels spanning the dark under the monastery.

The night is young. Above ground, the inhabitants of Garreg Mach are winding down their days, completing their late night rituals before they ready themselves for bed..

Below, on the other hand, the hour is prime for activity.

Now is the best time of day to challenge the Savage Mockingbird for a good practice bout.

**~o.O.o~**

After the professor disappeared during the Imperial attack on Garreg Mach two years ago, Emperor Edelgard stubbornly remained at the monastery with her Black Eagle Strike Force for one full moon. In that time, she commanded the legions of troops at her disposal from the monastery; sending missives by messengers, ordering imperial forces to Adrestia’s borders, putting preparations for major strikes in place, and repelling the first tentative strikes by Church forces against Garreg Mach personally. When her presence was demanded in Enbarr, she made what some called a lavish use of warp magic to make the trip there and back as quick as a flash so she could be at Garreg Mach if the professor happened to reappear.

She never did.

At the end of the Great Tree Moon of Imperial Year 1181, Edelgard could delay her responsibilities to her ministers in Enbarr no longer and returned to the Adrestian capital to push the bulk of her plans into action; the war effort proceeding onward in earnest with her official order from the palace in Enbarr for Count Bergliez to start what would come to be known as the first siege of Arianrhod - the second major Imperial offensive of the war. Waiting for the professor’s return was no longer a task she could keep in priority.

The Black Eagle Strike Force disbanded in parts. A great number of them accompanied Edelgard back to Enbarr, their positions as nobles of vassal states - like Petra - or heirs of prominent Imperial ministers - such as Linhardt - requiring them to remain by the Emperor’s side, or otherwise because they were called home at the behest of their parents. The Death Knight went with the emperor - a loyal tool following its master. Mercedes, concerned about her brother and unhappy with the state of their uncertain, newly rekindled relationship, followed,

The rest remained at Garreg Mach: Ferdinand, who accepted responsibility for command of Garreg Mach with grave importance, Bernadetta, who refused to go home even after the death of the father she so feared, reluctant to leave the monastery she had come to so comfortably call home. Dorothea was reluctant to take part in war, but when the influx of refugees and orphans began to arrive at the monastery, heading to the beacon of safety Garreg Mach used to be under the Church’s authority despite the knowledge of current imperial occupation, she took responsibility for them all, bullying Ferdinand to share his resources and food to care for them as much as she could.

Felix and Ashe, as Faerghus defectors, remained at the monastery as well. It felt wrong to go to Enbarr to face the potent scrutiny of imperial suspicion, and in all honesty, having abandoned Faerghus, there was nowhere else for them to go.

From there, they all took on the roles Edelgard requested of them and began to make a new life as imperial generals, captains, and soldiers in a time of war, fighting for a vision Edelgard had promised and that their old professor had seen to be a worthy cause.

Even as he took on more responsibilities - took part in strikes, assassinations, acts of war - on behalf of the empire, Felix constantly felt out of place. He wasn’t Adrestian and it was obvious in his mannerisms, his swordplay, and his manner of dress. Though he succeeded in most every mission he took - became known for his combat prowess, personally proved his worth in furthering the Emperor’s goals - he felt always scrutinized, judged, by the people around him.

Ferdinand went to great lengths to reassure him of his trust and his fellow Black Eagles never treated him difficulty, but they weren’t always there. Felix had known his past position as the heir of a Kingdom noble house would bring with it scrutiny when the war began in earnest but he underestimated how much it would affect him.

As the highest profile defector of Faerghus to Adrestia, his name carried a weight. As the former heir of House Fraldarius, it also brought with it condemnation. If a Fraldarius could betray the Kingdom royalty his house was so famously, enduringly loyal to after a childhood spent in the prince’s -now King’s -company, what good was his word to Adrestia as a man? The Adrestians were grateful for his ability but they would never trust him fully.

Ashe, as a commoner with a vendetta against the church for what it had done to his adoptive family, did not face the same level of scrutiny.

For a time Felix had kept to himself, alienated from the greater population of Garreg Mach as it filled, more and more, with Imperial troops, leadership, and Adrestian merchants. When his absence from the monastery at large became glaring between his missions, and concerning to the others, who began to struggle to convince him to join them for meals, Ashe ambushed him in his room, took his hand and dragged him down into Abyss.

**~o.O.o~**

The abysskeeper greets Felix when he arrives after navigating the twists and turns to the entrance of the underground community. The guard has grown used to his occasional presence, nowadays, from him spending idle hours underground, sometimes in the company of Ashe or Linhardt, whenever the reluctant bishop managed to sneak back to Garreg Mach before he was inevitably called back home. Usually Felix came alone.

Ashe had warned him, on his first visit, of the dangers of ruffians which make up the majority of the underground’s population: people quick to anger, and liable to swindle and steal. Felix found it a non-issue. As a man constantly armed, uncomfortable without a blade at his side, he found navigating Abyss’ dangers straightforward and ridiculously simple compared to the song and dance of gossip and the management of his reputation on the surface.

He’s only been robbed thrice, and two of those times, he let it happen, choosing to abandon his instinctive reaction to chase. He’s not keen on bullying the less fortunate, and it’s not like he’s hurting for money, given how much of what he lives on, Ferdinand and Garreg Mach provides. He’s learned, anyway; nowadays he doesn’t bring his coin purse down with him.

Under the cover of shadow, being in Abyss is freeing in a way. As a community of outcasts, people in Abyss minded their own business. The ability to walk about freely without being judged was exactly what he needed.

Privately, he’s glad Abyss remains accessible at all. Had the Imperial army made the wrong move, Yuri and their wolves could very easily have made it impossible to reach.

When the professor disappeared, the Ashen Wolves she had recruited to the Black Eagle house retreated underground. Yuri had never made it a secret that they and their ilk trusted very few of the surface dwellers and that the professor had been an incredibly special case. Edelgard and Hubert had never been able to build that same rapport with the de facto lord of Abyss and Yuri refused to allow their people to be visibly participant on the imperial side unless they chose to, independently of Yuri’s own choices. Edelgard had understood but Hubert had been incensed, chagrined that the empire could not readily benefit from the Savage Mockingbird’s extensive network of informants and supporters spread through the underground societies across the land.

Despite this, Yuri recognized Abyss’ dependence on the charity of Garreg Mach to ensure the survival of its people. And since the imperials occupied Garreg Mach, the Ashen Wolves agreed to cooperate, within reason. Hubert had wanted to press their advantage but Edelgard refused, realizing alienating Abyss would create an enemy within the monastery she wanted to keep under her control, could create a schism among the group she called her friends, and that if, or when, the professor returned, her disappointment at their actions against the Abyssians would be unacceptable for the emperor to bear.

And so Abyss remained open to Garreg Mach. So long as Ferdinand and Hubert provided food and supplies to the Abyssians, Yuri agreed their people wouldn’t aid the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus or the Leicester Alliance in their war efforts either and that they would humour the occasional request Hubert had for Yuri and their people to aid in clandestine missions and occasional acts of subterfuge on the behalf of the empire, so long as it could be guaranteed their participation in imperial affairs would not be common knowledge.

So far, the deal has held.

Yuri has even accompanied Felix on several above ground missions. Felix would have advised against it, personally, but Yuri does what they choose. Few people know the face of the Savage Mockingbird anyway. If Yuri feels it’s worth the risk, Felix isn’t going to fight with them about it.

Felix makes his way through the underground market, his pace quick, posture hunched, and an only mildly threatening scowl on his face to ward away pickpockets. He’s not carrying anything worth stealing but he’d rather not be bumped into all the same.

A few faces watch him as he goes and some men nod their head at him. He scowls at the action, but doesn’t stop to heed it otherwise.

Making it through unaccosted, Felix darts down the stairs to the deeper rooms of the main body of Abyss, heading for the defunct mockery of a classroom Yuri set up as the headquarters of Garreg Mach’s unofficial fourth house.

Yuri is frequently busy, as the underground lord of Abyss. Not only because they’re the leader of the Ashen Wolves but also because they are a notorious micromanager, frequently playing their cards so close to their chest, only they are the one who knows what they all are. When Felix arrives at the open space, Yuri is deep in conversation with a group of people, frowning heavily, tapping their fingers on a pocketbook in their hands, occasionally gesturing sharply as they speak.

Felix takes a position by the door, pulls his sword in its sheath free of his belt, and cradles it in his arms. Then he leans against the wall, slides down to take a seat, and waits.

As a ‘student’ of the professor in the Black Eagle house, Yuri had been notoriously difficult to find in their free time back at the academy. Felix recognized in them a fellow swordsman, gifted with a blade, and an expert of a wholly unique style of swordplay he had hungered to test with his own. The opportunity had never presented itself while they were students since Yuri was impossible to find above ground outside of one-on-one learning with the professor, specific seminars of interest, and missions the professor requested their presence on, and Felix had been mostly ignorant of Abyss and never asked for more information.

It wasn’t until Felix’s third unsupervised visit to Abyss during the war, after he’d agreed to do a favour for Yuri and completed it, that Yuri agreed to a spar with him for the first time in the underground fighting pits of Abyss.

Felix had been defeated soundly, unfamiliar with fighting with an opponent whose proficiency at trickery and subterfuge carried over into their combat so heavily, and, to add insult to injury, had lost Balthus a good deal of gold for failing to last long enough in the ring - something the King of Grappling complained about for weeks, every time Felix returned to Abyss.

The allure of facing an opponent he would need to work to defeat, and the refreshing anonymity of being in Abyss meant Felix returned frequently on his own, agreeing easily to Yuri’s continued requests to do things for him above ground in exchange for another bout in the ring. As a side effect of working for Yuri between official missions given to him by Ferdinand, it made Felix a regular visitor of Abyss; enough for the people to stop looking so wary at his presence.

Eventually, he started agreeing to do what Yuri asked without demanding a spar in return up front and Yuri stopped counting the favours needed to buy their time. Occasionally, they even talk: about affairs above ground, complaining about Hubert, and when Balthus stocks up on alcohol - which Yuri promptly steals into to nip the best bottles for their own use - they commiserate about Faerghus with the tacit understanding that neither of them will breathe a word of it to anyone else.

Maybe that can be considered something like friendship.

Felix watches Yuri conduct their business for the next while, shouldering his sword to rest more comfortably on his shoulder and fights the thoughts trying to form in his mind with plans of how to approach the spar he plans to have.

Yuri is still ahead in their running tally of scores. Felix has been catching up steadily but the trickster’s early lead, when Felix was still learning exactly how underhanded someone could be in combat, remains an enduring obstacle to overcome. Yuri has never gone easy on him, pulling every trick in the book to stay ahead. Felix likes the challenge.

Finally, after the first group of Abyssian men, then the next two finish their conversations and leave, Yuri meets Felix’s steady brown-eyed gaze and smirks as they approach his seated figure, “Fraldarius,” they greet, lazily, crossing their arms when they stand before him.

“Leclerc,” Felix responds, flatly.

It’s not the first time Yuri has kept him waiting, but it’s just as annoying, each time.

“And what,” Yuri asks, “Pray tell, brings you back down to Abyss so soon after your last mission?” like they aren’t fully aware of the one of maybe two reasons Felix ever makes the trip.

Felix stands, brushing the dirt off his pants, “Spar with me,” he states simply, sliding his sword back into place on his belt.

“Tsk,” Yuri rolls their eyes, “So eager to roll in the dirt after you’ve clearly just cleaned yourself up. I’m a busy man, Lone Wolf. Gonna need a good reason to give you my time.”

Felix crosses his arms, “You don’t look busy.”

Yuri kicks out a chair by an overturned desk, taking a graceful seat before nudging another chair at Felix and gesturing for him to do the same “Abyss gets more and more full every day,” he says, as Felix grudgingly does, clenching his jaw when the chair wobbles under him, uneven, “More mouths to feed, more newcomers to screen, more suspicious types to keep in line. You should know: I’m always busy.”

Felix stares for a moment, when Yuri watches him expectantly, lavender eyes amused as they wait.

Keeping his gaze locked on Yuri’s own, Felix reaches down and pulls the dagger free from his boot, fingering a subtle mechanism to pop the hollow hilt off the useless blade and tipping a folded piece of parchment out. Yuri smiles, and Felix hands it over, reassembling the dummy knife and shoving it back in his boot.

“How was Gloucester?” Yuri asks, unfolding the paper and reading it over, studying the contents.

It’s coded. Felix hadn’t bothered to try reading it when he’d received it in a tavern basement on the Gloucester-Reigan border on a detour Ferdinand hadn’t been enlightened on, mostly because it didn’t impact his overall report in. Yuri’s business isn’t Ferdinand’s, and as far as Felix is concerned, they’re on the same side, so it doesn’t matter.

“Boring,” Felix mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, mentally cursing when the chair tips again slightly on its uneven legs.

Yuri meets his eyes, waiting elaboration.

Felix sighs, “The count’s a self-severing sham of a man, bowing to the empire and posturing at the rest of the Alliance,” he sneers, “He preserves his power for the moment, but all it does is delay the inevitable. He’s not helping his people the way he thinks he is.”

Yuri chuckles, “You clearly have no appreciation for the stratagem and interpersonal tightrope walking of Alliance politics,” they muse, folding the paper in half before ripping it to shreds, crushing the pieces in their fist.

“I’m from Faerghus,” Felix rolls his eyes, “If the binding loyalty to the king didn’t deal with it, we settled our differences with the sword.”

'With the lance' is probably the more accurate term, given the ubiquity with which the weapon is used especially among Faerghus nobility, but Felix stopped bothering with the lance a long time ago.

“Too true, too true,” Yuri nods, glancing aside, “That’s definitely something I don’t miss.”

“Hm,” Felix responds, eloquently, feeling the awkward dip in his mood every time Faerghus becomes a topic of conversation, brought forth by his traitorous mind.

For a moment, there’s a contemplative silence. Yuri not yet breaching it with a topic of conversation, Felix with simply nothing to say.

“Something must be on your mind,” the trickster says, eventually, “For you to wander down here without even having a night’s rest first.”

Felix grunts. He hadn’t had any strict deadline to pass Yuri the message from the request he’d tacked onto Felix’s mission for Ferdinand. In any sensible state of mind, he’d have wandered into Abyss the next day, or the day after that, after a good night’s rest.

Felix can acknowledge that he’s not in a sensible state of mind, even if he at least has the sense to know it.

“No gifts for me?” Yuri asks, coyly, “When you still owe me for that rapier I went to such lengths to get you? Something must be really bothering you.”

“I keep telling you to take that up with von Vestra,” Felix mutters, looking away.

“You broke it,” Yuri retorts, “I’m taking it up with you.”

“Tch.”

The rapier isn’t really a sore point of contention, Felix knows. Yuri’s just teasing. Still, Felix regrets the circumstances for the weapon’s destruction. The trauma of the whole event aside, it really had been a beautiful blade.

“Alright, spill,” Yuri orders when Felix refuses to be forthcoming, preferring to sit in tense silence over talking about why he entered Abyss so soon after his return, and so late at night.

“I thought you were busy,” Felix returns, frowning at the dirt.

“Oh believe me, I _am_ too busy to deal with the whole routine that goes into preparing the time and space for a spar, especially with you,” Yuri says dismissively, and Felix turns his frown from the ground to Yuri themself, “What I am _not_ , however, is too busy to listen to a friend who needs someone to lend an ear.”

Felix turns his gaze away again. It feels strange, to be acknowledged as a friend in Yuri’s words. Felix knows he doesn’t get along well with people, and that Yuri has very few people they would consider acquaintances, much less friends. It’s embarrassing; he can feel the warm heat of it rising through his chest, his neck, to stain his cheeks.

“Well?” Yuri asks, not impatiently, but not willing to take nothing from the conversation either.

Felix mulls over whether or not to say for a long moment. He’s in Abyss because he specifically didn’t want to talk about it, hoping for a spar to distract him from the trial of it. He could feign ignorance, but that would be all but a useless waste of time. Dorothea may have been a master gossip to pass details to Felix on his return, but Yuri is every bit her equal or better at the art. The fact they regularly share gossip with each other - when Yuri works with her to coordinate the care for refugees and orphans in the towns and villages in the shadow of Garreg Mach - means that between the two of them, essentially nothing happens in Garreg Mach or Abyss without Yuri knowing about it.

Gossip is, after all, just another word for intel.

Felix is stubborn, but Yuri is equally so and twice as wily about it. At the least, they’re discrete. If Felix says something in confidence, the information, in Yuri’s hands, will never, ever be voiced again without Felix’s allowance of it. Yuri might use the knowledge if it gives them an advantage, but they’d never say it aloud.

He could just get up and leave without saying anything, but given how Yuri values their time that would probably just end badly for him.

“Sylvain’s here,” Felix lets the words spill out from his throat, “In Garreg Mach.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Yuri responds, perhaps a little unkindly, but they’ve never been one to spare feelings.

“I think he’s here to see me,” Felix mutters.

“And?”

“And that’s it,” Felix snaps, irritated, “I don’t know anything else.”

Yuri crinkles the scraps of paper in their palm, sitting quietly, staring Felix down calmly and a little unnervingly.

Felix’s gaze darts up, considering, “Unless you know anything...” he suggests.

Yuri grins, “They say he--"

“Announced himself at the gate like a jingling fool,” Felix interrupts impatiently. _Why does everyone open with that?_ “I know,” he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Well,” Yuri chuckles, “I can tell you it was as funny as it was baffling.”

Felix is sure it was _hilarious_. Stupid, foolhardy, and idiotically _hysterical_ for everyone to watch the philandering heir of Gautier walk up to the gates of Garreg Mach alone, travelling from Goddess knows where, turn himself into the imperial army, ask to join their side, then get locked away in a cell for the foreseeable future because he’s so phenomenally _stupid_ he doesn’t think before he acts.

“What are you worried about, Felix?” Yuri asks, softly, the moment of levity passed for them, while Felix has his head in his hands, refusing to speak.

“...I’m worried he made a stupid decision without thinking,” Felix blurts into his hands, “And he’s ruined his own life over an impulse he should have been smart enough to ignore.”

His thoughts are beginning to spill over now that he’s actually having a conversation he intended to avoid since he left Ferdinand’s office. The formless incoherent thoughts are rapidly assembling themselves into understandable words and it’s distressingly easy to let them spill forth like a mess of wine on a dining hall table, tipped from a harried goblet after one too many rowdy soldiers bumping into the furniture.

Yuri, wisely, keeps quiet and lets him speak.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Felix rants, sitting up and gesturing sharply, glaring into the mid distance over Yuri’s shoulder, “Coming here as a Kingdom noble is just a stupid risk with no payoff! No preparation, no plan... The war’s been going on for two years, and he’s shown no indication of ever disagreeing with Faerghus the whole time! No imperial would trust his word; it’d be easier, smarter to just kill him,” he winces. Voicing that thought just makes his want to throw up. He powers past it, “What could the Empire offer Sylvain the Kingdom doesn’t already give him?”

The words seem to echo in the space of the room. Yuri lets them settle in the air as Felix continues to stare past them at the tilted chalkboard on broken wheels, the nonsense diagrams of what might be arcane symbols, half a map of some tunnels of Abyss, and meaningless words written in messy scrawls of chalk.

Eventually, Yuri tilts their head, tapping a finger against their chin, and calmly responds, “Probably a lot more than you think.”

Felix looks at them like they’re mad.

“I was there for that mess with Miklan,” Yuri explains, standing and walking over to the fireplace at the side, tossing the scraps of paper from their hand into the fire, finally “Sylvain wasn’t in the class but he was with us that moon to deal with him. I watched him throughout the month. The clues were there if you’re looking for them,” they turn back to face Felix, walking back over and leaning against a desk, “A future without crests...” they muse, “You can’t tell me that’s something he’s not interested in.”

Felix feels that last statement like a gut punch. It winds him because it’s true. Sylvain would love a future without crests, Felix knows, even if Sylvain never, ever said the words out loud in so simple a phrase, even after a childhood defined and oppressed by the existence of one. But he always lived like it was never a possibility he would see in his lifetime, so he submitted to the systems set in place by them as if they were set in stone.

“But to betray the Kingdom for it?” Felix asks quietly, looking back up at Yuri.

“Is that so hard to believe?” the trickster responds simply, “You did it.”

Felix looks away, “I...” he stutters, and stops.

Betraying the Kingdom had been a hard choice. The suddenness of the decision to follow the professor had made it a quick one, but once he had found himself at Edelgard’s advance camp awaiting the strike on Garreg Mach, he had come to realize that even as the decision haunted him and he grew anxious at the consequences of it, he had never regretted it. For years, he had vowed to live his own path, cutting himself free from the expectation set upon him, the shackles of chivalry and tradition growing ever heavier since the day Glenn had gone and the boar lost his mind. The immediacy of the duchy’s future had fallen to Felix earlier than it would have without the suddenness of tragedy to remind everyone that time should not be taken for granted.

He had always known that to be able to live a path he believed in, he would have to sever himself from everyone he knew and the people he had grown up with - his family, his friends - to see that happen. He had that resolve and he lived by that decision. He could only look forward and refused to look back.

Sylvain isn’t like him.

“Sylvain has always been a better friend than me,” Felix says quietly. The Gautier heir defined his role by the people around him and built habits and behaviour based on what he felt the people around him deserved to see. He was steadfastly loyal to those he grew up with, even when they didn’t deserve it. Leaving that sort of stability with the Kingdom - in wartime, especially - would be a decision magnitudes harder for Sylvain to do, compared to Felix who pushed forth and cut his ties in the name of his own future, “I just...” Felix falters, and shrugs, “He’s not like me.”

“I don’t know, I think you’re pretty good friend material,” Yuri responds, not partial to the self-deprecation at work before them, “When you’re not demanding the time I don’t have or breaking the tools I go to great pains to get you, at least,”

Felix meets their gaze flatly, slumping in his chair. He feels exhausted, suddenly, his brain having reached its limit of assembling formless thoughts, overwhelmed by emotion and upset, finally feeling the weight of fatigue from five days of travel, two and a half heavy conversations, and all the muddled contemplations between.

“Listen,” Yuri says, stepping closer and extending a hand, which Felix takes, to pull him upright from his chair, “I think you’re overthinking it.”

“You think,” Felix echoes as he stands, releasing their hand when he’s upright, crossing his arms once he’s free.

“Well, now I know you’re overthinking it,” Yuri teases, “Take it from me, it’s not worth agonizing over what you don’t know. Focus on what you do know: Gautier’s here, von Aegir hasn’t had him killed, von Vestra doesn’t arrive until tomorrow. There’s still time to talk to him, if you want to.”

Felix sighs, “Von Aegir forbid me from speaking with him.”

“When has Ferdinand von Aegir giving an order ever stopped you from doing something?” Yuri asks with a disbelieving quirk of their brow.

“When he became the commander of Garreg Mach,” Felix responds sullenly.

“Now you’re just being contrary,” Yuri retorts knowingly. Ferdinand has never been able to stop either of them from doing anything they wanted to do regardless. Not without help at least. “I know Garreg Mach inside and out,” Yuri offers, leaning in conspiratorially, “If you really want, I could take you to see Sylvain. There’s only so many places they could put him where nobody would stumble on him to do something stupid like, I don’t know, talk to him without permission.”

Felix meets their gaze. For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe while the possibility is suspended in the air. His mind dances along an imagined path: to meet Sylvain before he is allowed, in defiance of Ferdinand’s, and likely Hubert’s, orders.

“Well?”

Felix releases his breath in a heavy sigh, “No,” he decides, the half formed plan scattering to the winds, “I...”

Yuri waits.

“I’m not ready to talk to Sylvain,” Felix responds quietly. Honestly. There’s so much he wants to say, not enough time to say it, and there’s no way to predict what Sylvain would say back besides. He’s tired, exhausted, and he doesn’t want to fight with a friend he betrayed, the inevitable conflict staying his hand. He needs a clear mind to speak with Sylvain, to navigate his clever words, fortify his own convictions, reaffirm his reasons, push through the heavy conversation he knows it’s going to be.

Now is not the right time.

“...Alright,” Yuri agrees, easily enough, “Just so you know, the offer’s on the table. If you change your mind, I’m here.”

There’s no time to change his mind, and they both know it. Hubert will be at Garreg Mach tomorrow. After that it’s too late.

“...Thanks,” Felix says anyway, greatly appreciative. Maybe the task would be easy for Yuri to do - to find Sylvain’s location in the sprawling expanse of Garreg Mach’s architecture, but to offer it regardless means a lot. “For the offer,” he continues, “And for... listening.”

Yuri claps his shoulder, “Anytime, Lone Wolf,” they wink, “You should head back up. I think you’re due a good night’s sleep. Can’t have been fun sleeping on the road and if you’re gonna convince von Vestra not to have Gautier killed, you might want a fresh mind for it.”

“Yeah,” Felix agrees. His head feels heavy now, it’s been a long day, “I’m... yeah.”

“If you still want that spar, you should talk to me tomorrow,” Yuri says, herding him to the door to send him down the underground streets back to the entrance and way out with a push, “Let’s say... just before dinner. I may have some free time, and I’m due a good workout.”

“Alright,” Felix agrees as he starts to walk off. A spar with Yuri is always something to look forward to. He may have been denied today, but the promise of one tomorrow is enough to make him agreeable to being gently shoved around, “Don’t hold back on me, Leclerc,” he orders, pointing back at them, turning round to take a few steps backward.

“Please, when have I ever?” Yuri replies easily with a shake of their head. “See you topside, Fraldarius.”

Felix waves, a short movement of his wrist, before turning round fully to walk back the way he came, navigating the narrow stairwells and winding tunnels to find his way back to the surface.

The monastery grounds look all but empty when he reemerges into the moonlight. The moon itself is high in the dark expanse of the sky, the night hour fully established in the time he’d been out of her sight. The imperial night watch patrols are scarce, wandering slowly, bobbing torches lighting their way as they amble round. Felix walks quietly, unseen, back past the ground floor dormitories to reach the stairwell to the second floor.

It doesn’t take him long to repeat the ritual to prepare for the night. Between one blink and the next, he’s changed and settled under the covers, lying on his side, staring for a few empty minutes at the mess on his desk before he closes his eyes.

Though sleep still feels it would avoid him, it catches him, nonetheless, and between one count of seven and the next, he sinks into slumber and doesn’t dream through the entirety of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's get this exposition out of the way and next chapter we get to the fun stuff 👀


	3. Empty Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain is here. Sylvain is bored. Sylvain remembers a better time.

**Great Tree Moon  
** **1183  
** **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Sylvain is getting bored.

One week since he arrived back at the monastery after two years away and all he’s seen is the front gate, the marketplace, the stables, and the knight’s hall where he’d been marched through before he had been led - in chains! - down a winding labyrinth of hallways he didn’t even know existed under the main building of the monastery and put in a tiny underground room he can’t leave.

He hadn’t expected the famous hospitality Garreg Mach had been known for providing to students of the Officers Academy, given the Imperial occupation and the suspension of classes for the foreseeable future and all, but at the least he thought they’d let him walk around supervised. His intentions weren’t bad, he was alone, and he’d willingly handed over everything he had. That was supposed to count for something, right?

Yes, he would be first to admit, after a week in this room, that maybe his plan to approach the imperial stronghold in a non-threatening fashion without providing any advance warning or offer as a well known Kingdom noble heir probably wasn’t his brightest idea. In his defence, he really couldn’t think of any other way to do it, given the... impulsive... way he’d put himself in this position, and returning to Fhirdiad or Gautier was out of the question after what he’d done.

At least he’d had the sense to wrap the Lance of Ruin up before he approached. If he’d had that thing brandished, he probably would have been shot and killed instantly by an imperial sniper before he made it halfway up the slope.

Although, given the torture of boredom - deprived of the sun and proper space to do anything worthwhile while the Empire leadership decide what to do with him - maybe he should have just done that and died instead. It’d probably be better and more convenient for everyone involved, including himself.

Sylvain sighs, lying back on the uncomfortable bed and stretching his arms out. He takes that back, actually, feeling a pit of guilt opening in his empty stomach. He’s not ready to die yet, not without doing what he came here to do.

Von Aegir, at least, had looked halfway apologetic. After listening to Sylvain’s request to join the imperial army, he’d formally and politely informed him that he’d have to talk to his superiors about it and verify his intentions before he could take him at his word.

“You must understand how it looks,” he had said, as Sylvain sat in front of him, in chains, with two imperial soldiers standing behind him after they’d already taken everything from him besides the clothes on his back, “You’re the heir of a very prominent Kingdom noble house, Sylvain,” as if Sylvain wasn’t acutely aware of that fact and hadn’t spent essentially every single day of his dysfunctional upbringing having that hammered into his fool head, “You’ve never reached out, or shown any evidence in the last two years of war that you’d harbour Empire sympathies or even discontent with the Kingdom or the Church. I just can’t trust you at your word.”

Then he’d offered him a tea biscuit - which Sylvain ate, because he had been raised with proper teatime etiquette, and also because he was hungry - and then calmly informed him that they would be keeping him confined, away from the rest of the population at Garreg Mach until they determined if he could be trusted, and what to do with him after that.

Hence the tiny room he’s in.

It could be worse, he supposes. At least they didn’t put him in a cell.

Speaking of cells, it was incredibly unsettling to realize Garreg Mach had cells at all - in fact, several levels of them, based on his observations of the stairwells he’d been led down - and that he, and everyone at the academy he’d bet, had never been aware of them. The monastery, as he had known it when he was younger - barely younger he supposes, two years isn’t that long - had been a place of worship first, and a school second. ‘Potential jail’ didn’t even place in the top 10 list of ‘things Garreg Mach is’ in his mind, so to see it has the ample space and resources to be one makes the Church of Seiros look, well, a little... weird?

If he were more ignorant, Sylvain would be tempted to say the cells are architectural artifacts, demonstrating the monastery’s age, origins reaching as far back as the earliest dynasties of the Adrestian Empire when the Church had greater governmental power and took a more aggressively active role in affairs of justice and governance.

He’s wiser now, having seen the military might of the Church of Seiros and how quickly and comfortably its monks, nuns, and peacekeeping knights transitioned from worship to warfare, even without a headquarters to call a home.

Maybe he should have known better - Lady Rhea did take part in executing members of the Western Church, after all. They had to have been put somewhere before it happened.

The room he’s trapped in must have been intended to be the living quarters of possibly a prison warden. It has a bed (uncomfortable), a desk (empty) with two chairs (both uneven), a bookcase (also empty), and an attached room with a chamberpot and room for a tub so he can wash up when they bring him the water to do so. He’s delivered two square meals a day, given enough lamps and oil and means to light them to keep the room as lit as he wants and enough water for a cursory wash daily, they empty the chamberpot once every night, and every three days they give him enough water to take a bath. In exchange he doesn’t get to leave, a rotation of guards stands outside his door at all times, and he has nothing interesting to do. All in all, it’s not a terrible deal. Maybe.

Sylvain would have preferred that they lock him up in his old dormitory room but he suspects those rooms are being used by other people and that defeats the purpose of keeping him as far away from others as possible.

Ha, imagine if Felix was still using his old room now? Then if Von Aegir had decided to lock him in his old dormitory room, he would be imprisoned just two doors away from him.

The idea brings with it a wave of warmth in his chest, of longing, when he imagines if it had come to pass. Even if he wouldn’t be allowed to leave, Felix would know he was there and he’d maybe, if he strained, be able to hear Felix move about in his room. He’d know he was alive, doing okay, minding his own business. Maybe he might have been able to tap messages between the walls too, the first means of communication he’d have with his old friend after two long, awful years.

Wishful thinking because Sylvain not even there. He’s here, in this underground room, as far away from the rest of the people living at the monastery instead.

Felix isn’t even at Garreg Mach anyways. Von Aegir had given Sylvain a pitying look, the first time he’d asked to see Felix, and said he was away on a mission. He didn’t say where.

Sylvain hopes it wasn’t to Faerghus.

Von Aegir himself drops by every other day. He’s needlessly formal, as if using stiff courtesy to distance himself from Sylvain. Sometimes he brings tea and biscuits. Usually he doesn’t, and brings him books instead - well meaning, perhaps, but there’s only so much of _The Essentials of Black Magic_ , the complete collection, volumes 1 to 8, Sylvain can read in one go before he starts going mad. He’s not even going to touch the _Epic Tales of Chivalry: Stories and Folklore from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, 4th Edition_. It feels wrong to, somehow.

Once he’s settled in Sylvain’s tiny space, von Aegir then usually attempts to learn more about why Sylvain is at Garreg Mach with polite conversation, rather than straightforward interrogation.

Sylvain contemplated telling him, once, when he brought bergamot tea down with him. Ultimately he decided not to, talking circles around him instead - trying to wheedle information about what was going on at Garreg Mach, what he was up to in the war, asking when Felix would be back at the monastery - maybe as a means to preserve his own meager secrets, but mostly to be petty about being locked in the room.

Von Aegir wasn’t the one in charge of his fate, anyway, so telling him what he wanted to know didn’t seem particularly advantageous to Sylvain, and he wasn’t about to hand free advantages to Von Aegir in this case.

Eventually, the commander of Garreg Mach gave up on questioning him. Now he spends most of his brief visits updating him on the status and health of Sylvain’s horse instead. Sylvain appreciates that. Apparently Belle is well fed and very content at the stables, being cared for by the stable hands. At least one of them is happy.

Before von Aegir leaves him to his solitude, every time, Sylvain asks when Felix will be back.

Von Aegir always gives a pitying look and says, ”Not today. We’re expecting him back soon, maybe tomorrow.”

Then Sylvain would ask, “When he’s back, can I talk to him?”

And Von Aegir responds, “We’ll see.”

Three times, over six days, this pattern repeats, and it’s starting to drive Sylvain to frustration.

Is this what it’s like, to be strung along with promises of maybe? Day after day, getting unduly excited for the possibility of getting what you want, only to inevitably be denied it, being promised ‘soon’, and ‘in the future’ until the cycle starts to wear you down?

If that’s the case, he owes a huge apology to every girl he strung along in his promiscuous youth, over promising and under delivering, day by day saying ‘maybe I’ll love you’ when he knows he never will. It’s torture, is what it is, and von Aegir disguising his empty promises that maybe tomorrow Sylvain will get to see Felix, with his formal courtesy and cups of decent tea doesn’t make it any less so.

He didn’t think the guy had it in him; von Aegir always seemed so earnest back at the academy, but the war being what it is, maybe he’s been taking cues from von Vestra, on emotional blackmail and torment. Power corrupts and all that.

**~o.O.o~**

On this, the seventh day of his forcible confinement - if Sylvain has counted his days correctly - von Aegir brings him dinner.

That’s odd for two reasons: one, he’d visited Sylvain the day previous, so this breaks the alternating day pattern he’s consistently followed, and two: he’s not only visiting later in the day, but he’s the one bringing him a meal. He’s never done that before.

Sylvain sits up at on the bed and stares as the other man places the plate of Garreg Mach meat pie on the desk, setting out a collection of utensils in their proper places around the plate, nudges one of the oil lamps on the desk to the side, then takes a seat on the other side.

“That’s not poisoned is it?” Sylvain asks, swinging his legs off the bed to stand, pulling the other chair out to take a seat across from him.

“Of course not,” von Aegir responds, looking particularly insulted at the suggestion, “Why would I poison you?”

Sylvain shrugs, grabbing the fork and spinning it between his fingers, “I dunno, maybe you’re tired of me.”

Von Aegir sighs, refusing to rise to the bait, closing his eyes as he settles back in his chair, brushing his ridiculous mane of hair to the side, so his weight doesn’t pin it between his back and the chair, before crossing his arms. It’s really weird to see that he’s growing his hair out, he’d always seemed to be the type to keep it cut short because longer hair meant a greater likelihood of looking unkempt.

There’s a strange scent in the air. Probably the tea the other man has had today. Sylvain leans forward, pretending to examine his meal and takes a sniff, then leans back, feeling slightly winded when he recognizes the smell.

Von Aegir smells like Almyran pine needle today. Sylvain stops spinning his fork, clutching it tightly in his fist instead.

He’s a tea aficionado, von Aegir - rivaled only by Lorenz Hellman Gloucester of the Alliance in their class of 1180 - and an enthusiastic partaker in the noble Adrestian tea party custom, eager to share his passions with all his friends and allies. There’s no fucking way he doesn’t know what Felix’s favourite tea is.

Either he’s getting more tips on executing subtle mental warfare, or...

Or what? Felix is back at Garreg Mach?

Sylvain tries not to let it get to him, and stabs the pie harshly with the fork. The burst of steam and the release of the scent of cooked meat and vegetables within fills the stagnant air of the room and blots out the lingering scent of pine needle tea.

Point, Sylvain.

“Must you treat your food this way?” von Aegir sighs, looking at the hole he’s punched into the dead center of the meat pie, the crust collapsing inwards.

“Sorry,” Sylvain retorts, not sorry at all, as he foregoes the knife and just uses the edges of the fork to cut a reasonable piece of crust, meat and vegetable from the mess he’s made to scoop into his mouth, “I’ve been going crazy in here. Did you know this is the longest in several moons I’ve gone without swinging a lance?” He laughs as he chews, mouth open, “I need to work this energy off somehow.”

Von Aegir deliberately avoids looking at his mouth, “Well, you’re in luck then,” he says.

Sylvain freezes, the tines of the fork still in his mouth, another chunk of pie burning a hole through his tongue.

“Hubert will be arriving tomorrow,” von Aegir announces, “He’ll be the one determining what we do with you.”

Sylvain swallows his food, “Great. Is there any chance we can do this without having me speak with him?” he asks, cutting another piece of meat pie to eat.

Von Aegir doesn’t grace that with a response.

“Is that it, or is there something else you want to say?” Sylvain asks when von Aegir continues to sit across from him, in no hurry to leave.

The other man uncrosses his arms, meeting Sylvain’s gaze with his own, “I know you have been... unsatisfied, with your situation.

That’s an understatement if he’s ever heard one.

“I understand that, I do,” he continues, as Sylvain continues to eat, “Regardless, I do want to inform you, if you weren’t already aware, that Hubert is much less lenient and forgiving compared to myself. It would be a great shame, Sylvain, to see a former classmate killed, when the potential to work together exists.”

Sylvain blinks.

“So I want to ask, one last time before Hubert arrives,” von Aegir says, leaning forward, “If there’s anything you want to share, regarding your reasons for being here.”

Sylvain chews thoughtfully, slowly, for longer than he really needs to, the food in his mouth reduced to tasteless mush before he swallows.

“Nope,” he says, simply, with a grin.

Von Aegir sighs, “Well I can’t say I didn’t try,” he says, leaning back.

“It’s not you, von Aegir,” Sylvain says, casually, gathering the pieces of his pie together into a pile so it’s easier to scoop up, “I just don’t see the point of saying things twice. Might as well wait until everybody’s here before I start telling my story.”

“Very well,” von Aegir says.

“Hubert will be here, but you’ll be asking the questions, right?” Sylvain says, scooping another pile of food into his mouth, “Because I’d really rather not deal with von Vestra.”

“I’ll be here,” he replies. It’s not a confirmation or a denial.

Sylvain doesn’t like that, 7but he’ll ignore it until it becomes an immediate issue.

“I also thought you might like to know,” von Aegir says, as Sylvain scrapes what’s left on his plate into a pile to shovel the last of his meal into his mouth, “Felix returned to Garreg Mach today.”

Sylvain stops moving with the fork halfway to his mouth and the glob of sauce and soft vegetable promptly falls off the utensil to splat on the edge of the plate. Under von Aegir’s judgmental gaze, Sylvain sits up straight, placing his fork on the edge of the plate at the perfect dining etiquette angle to indicate he’s done with his meal, and folds his hands in front of him on the desk.

“Uh, he is, huh?”

He feels nervous, suddenly, why is he so nervous?

“I’ve told him he can’t see you.”

As quickly as his nervous energy came into being it falls flat like a stone, dragging his mood down with it in a free fall at terminal velocity, slapping inelegantly against the stone floor.

Sylvain turns his palms to face the ceiling, imploring, betrayed, “Ferdinand!” he exclaims. He knows what Sylvain wants. Sylvain has been asking him the same question for _days_.

“I’m sorry, Sylvain,” von Aegir responds, not looking sorry enough, in Sylvain’s opinion, not even reacting to the first time Sylvain’s bothered to use his given name, “But we don’t know if you’re trustworthy. For all we know, you could be here to eliminate traitors to Faerghus stationed at Garreg Mach. It’s for his safety.”

“I would _never_ hurt Felix!” Sylvain shouts back. The idea is unthinkable; even at war, he’d never, ever considered the very thought. Even if he’d ever encountered Felix on the field of war - which he hadn’t because the chances were so slim, given his father’s orders that he spend at least half of every year at the northern border far from the front lines, wandering around scaring Srengi raids off with his horrible, wiggling lance - he had never even once considered fighting Felix in earnest. He’d thought about crying in front of him, running from the battlefield to avoid him, begging him to come back, following him away from the Kingdom, but never fighting him.

 _Never_.

The very idea that von Aegir thought he was capable stirs a horrible churning frustration in his gut and an equally awful ache rising up through his chest.

“I don’t know that,” von Aegir says simply, and he’s right.

Sylvain had never told him or tried to convince him otherwise. He’d never thought of the possibility, and that meant he couldn’t even deny it. Not that he would have tried to play nice anyway, letting his frustrations get the better of him.

' _One hell of a bad gamble, Gautier_ ,' Sylvain thinks, staring at his sauce stained plate. The one time he lets himself be as petty as he wants and it turns out he just bit himself in the ass instead.

“Be honest tomorrow,” von Aegir says neutrally, standing and reaching to take his plate and utensils, “That’s the best way to ensure you’ll get what you want.”

Sylvain leans back in his chair, tipping his head back and covering his face with his hands.

“Can you...” Sylvain mumbles through his palms, “Can you at least tell me if he’s alright?”

Von Aegir doesn’t answer immediately so Sylvain drops his hands - his head tipping forward again to sit straight on his shoulders - so he can look the other man in the eye.

He looks... contemplative. There’s an amused look on his face; not mean or mocking or amused at his expense, just... amused.

“What?” Sylvain asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” the other man responds, shifting the plate and utensils in his hands, “It’s just... Felix asked the same question about you, earlier. That’s all.”

Sylvain’s heart leaps in his chest. Felix asked if he was okay? So he was concerned? Worried about him? That’s good. That’s... better than Sylvain expected, maybe, he’s not sure. At the least, it means he still cares.

Right?

“He’s fine, if you were wondering,” von Aegir says, reaching for the door, “I can tell you that,” he says.

“That’s great,” Sylvain says, nodding his head absently. He swallows. There’s something warm and fidgety in his chest, chasing away an edge of tension; a weight he’s held on for several moons. He wants to savour the feeling, let it sink in deep into his bones.

There’s been a knot in his chest since the last time he’s heard anything about Felix’s whereabouts, and the last bit he’d heard had been that he’d been injured, maybe severely, many moons ago. And after Duke Fraldarius had made his declaration to the court that Felix was a lost cause...

Well, there hadn’t been much said about him after that.

“I will see you tomorrow, Sylvain,” von Aegir says from the door, before he departs with Sylvain’s dirty plate and cutlery in hand, shutting the door behind him.

Sylvain slumps over the desk, resting his head on his arms.

Two years and two moons since he’d seen Felix last.

A lifetime ago, it feels like, and yet he can remember like it was yesterday.

They were so naïve then. None of them had known what was going to happen, none of them could have seen it coming.

If he’d known that would be the last time he’d see Felix, that he’d been taking for granted that they’d graduate and return back to Faerghus together, finish growing up side by side... That they’d always be steadfast allies maintaining the legacy of their two noble houses; the backbone of Faerghus standing behind their King...

Maybe he would have been a little bolder, that night.

**~o.O.o~**

**Pegasus Moon  
** **1180**  
**Winter  
** **Garreg Mach**

It’s late, the moonlight filtering in through the window, peeking through the curtains when Sylvain hears a hesitant knock at the door.

He’s half asleep at that point, under the warmth of his down blanket, and considers ignoring it but when the knock repeats, firmer, he decides that maybe he should get up and answer. If it’s a girl they would have said something by now, and given the circumstances as of late, this could be important.

Tomorrow’s a big day for the monastery, after all.

It’s a bit of a surprise when he opens the door to see Felix on the other side.

“Hey,” the younger teen says, gaze flickering up to meet Sylvain’s before it darts away again, ever elusive. He’s hunched in on himself, arms crossed tight, dressed in his nightclothes with a night robe that doesn’t look at all warm enough for the season wrapped around him. His hair’s gathered haphazardly into a low ponytail yanked over a shoulder.

“Felix,” Sylvain yawns, leaning against the doorframe, one hand still on the knob, “What’s up?”

Felix hesitates, biting his lip, “...Can I...” he trails off.

He looks entirely too awake for the late hour. Dark circles are coming into being under his bright eyes, but he’s fidgeting, alert even though he ought to be fatigued from a day that Sylvain knows he spent training. Something’s bothering him. Sylvain waits and doesn’t speak. Sometimes Felix needs the space and the silence to get his thoughts out in their totality.

Felix shakes his head. No dice tonight. “You know what,” he says, “Never mind, it’s... stupid.” He turns to leave and return back to his room.

Sylvain frowns; that means it’s really worrying him. Not urgent, because then he’d just say it, but bothersome enough he’ll make the effort to reach out then second guess himself. “Hey, come on, Felix,” he says, reaching out just enough to catch Felix’s attention, “I don’t know if it’s stupid if you don’t tell me.”

The young swordsman considers it, looking back over at him over his shoulder. Sylvain feels his heart give a little kick. Felix looks uncertain. Without his hair up in a high, severe tail or bun, he looks softer. He’s tempted to say Felix looks vulnerable, but ‘vulnerable’ and ‘Felix’ haven’t been compatible words for a long time.

“I’m here for you if you want to talk,” Sylvain says, quietly in the space between them.

Felix turns, scowl finding a way back onto his face, “Don’t you have...” he tries to deflect, “Isn’t there a girl over, or something?”

Sylvain shrugs, scratching at his jaw, “Nah, bit late for that,” he replies easily. He doesn’t let them stay the night, unless he’s intoxicated, and in those cases he’s usually awful company so they don’t stick around anyway. “Besides, I haven’t done much of that lately. Too much weird stuff going on, and graduation is coming up. Figured I should take a break from that, take my studies seriously."

Turning back to face him fully, Felix blinks, looking skeptical.

Sylvain feels a faint twinge in his chest. For Felix not to believe him isn’t really Felix’s fault - Sylvain’s reputation is a well deserved and enduring one, and they’ve been in separate classes for a long while now despite Sylvain’s efforts to spend a little time each moon with Felix. It’s hard to when he just doesn’t share the swordsman’s relentless drive to train at every free available hour. That and Professor Byleth keeps the Black Eagles _busy_ \- as a prior mercenary, her aptitude and interests lie in practical combat learning so her class is away from the monastery on auxiliary missions as often as they’re on site doing what they do for fun on free days. They just haven’t been spending as much time together for Felix to know, and he’s never been much interested in Sylvain’s cavorting around anyway.

If he’s being honest, Sylvain hasn’t had the pressing urge to seek out girls for a while. Not since the ball two moons back, after the last dance he had that night. Felix doesn’t need to know that though. It’s not important.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Sylvain asks, “You look like you have something to say.”

Felix looks down, brow furrowed in thought as he mulls over it.

Sylvain takes the opportunity to just study him. The year at Garreg Mach has been good to Felix. The rigorous educational program and year long training regimen has been packing muscle onto his lithe frame, bleeding whatever rare deposits of fat existed from his body. The time away from Fraldarius and the oppressive weight of the duchy and his father’s expectations has been doing wonders for his mood, replacing the sullen teen angst he was rife with in the beginning of the year with something resembling stern adult confidence.

He looks good. Sylvain almost regrets that soon they’ll all have to go back home.

“Move,” Felix orders, coming to a decision, striding over and shoving up against the door.

Sylvain holds the doorknob fast, “Uh,” he says eloquently, unprepared for his space to be invaded.

“Let me in,” Felix says, staring up at him like he’s being particularly slow, “I’m not talking out here where anyone can hear me.”

“Oh, uh,” Sylvain hesitates, nervous suddenly. His room’s a mess, he hasn’t cleaned up. It should be presentable before he invites Felix in, “Wait--”

Felix ignores him and shoulders his way past, knocking the doorknob from his grasp as strides in, leaving Sylvain behind at the doorway to his own room.

“Okay,” Sylvain says, feebly, “Alright,” and follows.

Sylvain shuts the door behind him, and walks past Felix’s figure standing still and somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room. He kicks his desk chair back into place by his desk and shoves the mess of papers on his desk into a semi-organized pile before reaching for the oil lamp on the desk to light it, giving them some light with which to see.

“Sorry about the mess,” he mutters, glancing over at the lance leaning silently in the far corner of the room, the ominous shape of his house relic carelessly shoved out of the way, immobile, so long as he doesn’t touch it. He should have stuffed it in the closet or wrapped the head up with a sheet, it’s an awful eyesore.

“It’s fine,” Felix replies, looking everywhere but at him, “Better than mine.”

Sylvain fights off a smile. Felix has always been messy unless it comes to his swords. He doesn’t doubt Felix’s room is a mess of things - books and clothes, assorted weaponry and all the things he needs to maintain them strewn wherever he used them last.

“Soo...” Sylvain says, dragging out the word as he drops down to sit on his bed, “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Felix responds, leaning against Sylvain’s desk to face him, foregoing the chair, “I just...”

He’s still fidgety, foot tapping unconsciously against the floor, his arms crossed again as if to hold himself still or ground himself where he is.

“...Are you worried about your mission tomorrow?” Sylvain ventures a guess.

“I’m not worried,” Felix instantly denies, so Sylvain knows he’s right, “I’m...” he frowns, “...Concerned.”

“That’s the same thing, Felix,” Sylvain laughs, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees, “You know you guys are like, the most prepared class of all time, right? You’ve dealt with worse and succeeded. It’s going to be fine, you’re just watching a ceremony down there anyway."

“It’s a revelation,” Felix corrects, his frown deepening, “Supposedly.”

The furrow of his brow is going to become permanent if he keeps frowning like that. Sylvain wants to wipe it off, smooth it out. He’s going to get wrinkles and it’s going to mar his pleasant Fraldarius looks.

“Nothing’s going to happen down there,” he says, trying to sound as reassuring as he’s able, “Well, nothing you can’t handle, anyway. What’s going to happen during a religious ceremony anyway?”

Felix turns the full force of his glare over to him.

Sylvain blinks back for a moment, taken aback by Felix’s expression before he remembers: oh right, that whole thing earlier in the year with the Rite of Rebirth. Yeah okay, he’s got a point.

“Okay, yeah,” Sylvain concedes, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “Dumb question.”

Felix sighs, heavily, a rush of frustrated air escaping his chest, “Something doesn’t feel right,” he says, firmly.

That’s as vague as it is certain, but Felix’s hunches tend to be more on target than they’re not. His instincts are primed to detect danger. That doesn’t mean he knows or can identify what exactly it is that’s setting him off.

Sylvain asks him anyway, “...What doesn’t feel right?”

“Everything!” Felix says suddenly, his arm flying out in a sharp gesture, and Sylvain’s gaze darts to the wall he shares with Dimitri, suddenly conscious of noise, “This mission,” Felix continues, “The revelation, the professor’s transformation... Nothing’s felt right since--” he cuts himself off, his arm returning to its crossed position, tight across his chest, and his head turns to plant his gaze firmly on the floor to the side.

The air feels suddenly filled with a tension that wasn’t there before.

“Remire?” Sylvain asks, quietly.

Felix nods, one firm dip of his head, “Remire,” he echoes, and clenches his jaw.

They both know what he’s thinking about.

Dimitri hasn’t been the same since Remire. Even though he hadn’t been there, personally, just knowing the details of what had happened and who had done it had set him off. The polished veneer of the prince is still there, but something’s been feeling off about it. Sylvain stopped sparring with him after Dimitri had broken his practice lance into three pieces with his own in a relentless bout after the calamity. He’d apologized, but Sylvain had felt that he wouldn’t be able to prevent it from happening again.

Before Remire, the atmosphere at Garreg Mach had always returned to something jovial. After Remire, there’s been a tension; a foreboding feeling that’s never completely gone away.

“I think the Archbishop is lying to us,” Felix whispers, in the silence.

Sylvain’s eyes widen and he looks over at the door, his window; suddenly irrationally worried that somebody - a patrolling knight, a wandering church priest - heard them, “...About what?” he asks, carefully.

“About what’s going to happen. I...” Felix takes a steadying breath, “I shouldn’t be saying this,” he mutters, shaking his head, but soldiers on anyway, keeping his gaze locked on Sylvain, “We’re going to witness a revelation, maybe, but we’re... we’re supposed to protect the professor down there. She wants us armed.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, closes it, then frowns, “...Protect her... from what?”

“Exactly!” Felix hisses, punctuating the sound with a sharp jab of his finger, “From what, Sylvain? There’s not supposed to be anything down there. It’s just a fancy graveyard.”

“Well,” Sylvain says, considering, bringing a hand to his chin in thought, “Maybe it’s just... a turn of phrase. Lady Rhea talks kind of weird sometimes. I mean,” he wracks his memory for any theological history he retained in the last year, “Saint Seiros had holy warriors accompanying her for her revelation I think, this could just be formality.”

Felix settles back against the desk, bringing his thumb to his mouth, pressing nervously against his teeth, “It feels like more than that.”

Sylvain cracks a smile, “Never thought you’d be, I dunno, worried rather than excited at the prospect of combat on a mission.”

Maybe some levity will help.

Felix doesn’t notice the attempt to ease the tension in the room, “I just don’t like feeling unprepared,” he says, quietly, pulling his hand away, crossing his arms again.

“Well, from where I’m sitting,” Sylvain says, “It doesn’t feel like you’re unprepared. More like over-prepared.”

Felix rolls his eyes, “Sylvain,” he says sternly.

Well, talking about it isn’t doing anything but making Felix more agitated, so Sylvain switches his strategy up. It won’t do to be anxious all night.

“Hey,” he gestures, shuffling over on his bed to make room for Felix to sit beside him, “Come here, humour me.”

Felix gives him a look long suffering look but acquiesces, walking over slowly to take a seat on the bed.

As soon as he’s within reach, Sylvain turns where he sits and grabs him, yanking him down into a hug, overbalancing him slightly so his nose ends up mashed into Sylvain’s shoulder and he ends up half kneeling on Sylvain’s bed next to him, his other leg off the edge of the mattress.

“Wh-- Sylvain!” Felix yelps into his shoulder.

Sylvain pats his back with a hand, shuffling their positions so Felix is a bit more settled on the mattress and so Sylvain can rest his own head against Felix’s right temple, “You are way too tense. Relax a bit,” he orders, and waits until Felix obeys.

Felix heaves a great sigh into his collarbone through his night shirt and slumps where he is. Sylvain feels the warmth of his breath blow through and suppresses a shiver.

“Here’s what I think,” he says, holding Felix in what he hopes is a comforting hug.

Felix shoves at him, trying to pull away from the hug, “If you’re not going to listen--”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong to be worried,” Sylvain speaks over him, holding firm, “Goddess knows this year has been... way more eventful than our parents told us it was supposed to be. The professor says to be prepared, right? Like all the time.” He lets Felix go, leaning back.

Felix leans away but doesn’t move from where he’s settled, looking up at Sylvain warily, his cheeks slightly pink.

“So, be prepared,” Sylvain says simply, “I think you’ve got that covered.”

Felix’s gaze flickers downwards to the space between them. His hair’s slightly mussed from Sylvain’s earlier actions, and he suppresses the urge to set the wayward strands right, pushing away the thought he has, suddenly, that he should redo Felix’s hair.

“There isn’t anything more you can do before tomorrow, anyway,” Sylvain continues, rubbing at the knuckles of his left hand with the fingers of his right to keep them occupied and to stop them from doing something he might regret, “The archbishop isn’t going to call it off and I don’t think the professor can be convinced not to go.”

“I never said it shouldn’t happen,” Felix mutters, pulling at his night robe.

“I know. I know,” Sylvain says, appeasing, “But my point is: there’s not much you, personally, can do to make tomorrow less worrisome.”

“...I guess not,” Felix concedes. His shoulders fall.

“So, you should stop being so tense,” Sylvain concludes, turning from his half-turned position to plant both his feet firmly on the floor, “And get a good night’s sleep so you can be well rested for tomorrow.”

He expects, then, for Felix to get up, maybe mumble a goodnight, and depart for his own room, leaving Sylvain to his own devices. Leave Sylvain to ponder the conversation, and to stay up much too late thinking about the feel of Felix in his arms and the easy trust he just gives him, to know where to draw the line if he makes a show of affection.

Felix doesn’t move from where he’s seated, fiddling awkwardly with the hem of his robe.

“I can’t sleep,” he mumbles eventually, when Sylvain tries to think of something to say and fails.

Sylvain still can’t think of anything to say, so he just stares at Felix as Felix stares at the floor. His cheeks are still pink.

It’s kind of cute.

Maybe. That’s not weird to think, at all. Perfectly normal thought.

“I’ve tried,” Felix says, ignorant of Sylvain’s sudden mental hiccup, “It... that’s why I came over. I thought if I told someone...”

“Oh,” Sylvain says dumbly, “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

Felix looks up at him again through his lashes, brow furrowed in confusion.

“To listen, Felix,” Sylvain clarifies, “I’m here to _listen_.”

There’s an awkward silence after as Sylvain fidgets with his hands and Felix doesn’t move, like he doesn’t want to leave the little enclosed bubble of Sylvain’s living space to return to his room with all his worries.

The oil lamp flickers, the flame dancing.

An idea forms in Sylvain’s mind. It’s a little selfish, maybe a tiny bit indulgent, but it’s the best idea he’s got.

If Felix isn’t ready to leave, maybe he wants to stay. Sylvain can live with that.

“Hey,” he says, gently, “You should stay over tonight.”

Felix meets his gaze but doesn’t move or react. Perfectly neutrally frozen, unsure of what to make of what he’s saying.

“It’ll be like when we were kids,” Sylvain continues, the words falling out of his mouth unbidden, getting away from him before his brain catches up and tells him to stop, “Sharing a bed never failed to knock you right out,” he says, standing to open the chest at the head of the bed, pulling out a spare pillow, “If you can’t sleep in your own bed, maybe you just need company.”

“...There’s no room,” Felix responds dubiously, his gaze flicking down to the mattress of Sylvain’s single bed and then back up to his face, as Sylvain tosses the pillow on the bed, “Your stupid flailing limbs will just shove me off onto the floor.”

“I promise I don’t kick in my sleep,” Sylvain blabbers, climbing properly onto his bed and shifting so he’s up against the wall on his side, “Come on,” he says, patting the space beside him, “You’re talking like you’re backing down from a challenge.”

Felix furrows a brow but moves closer anyway, “It’s not going to be comfortable.”

Sylvain flops over onto his pillow, yanking the spare into place beside it, “Get over here, Fraldarius,” he orders, then holds his breath and waits.

Against all odds, Felix obeys, stretching out slowly, like a cat, wary, facing Sylvain as he lies down, resting his head on the farthest edge of the spare pillow.

“See?” Sylvain grins, “We totally fit.”

There’s definitely enough room. With Sylvain as far over as he’s put himself and Felix just as far the opposite way, there’s a significant gulf of space between the two of them; wasted expanse that ought to be filled. One or both of them is definitely not completely on the mattress, and Sylvain knows who.

Felix rolls his eyes, “This is stupid. I’m half hanging off,” he declares, embarrassed, “I’m leave--”

Sylvain rolls over and pulls him closer.

“Syl _vain_!” Felix squeaks, as he’s bodily yanked a good half a foot over, so all of him is on the mattress and none of him hangs over the edge, his head planted dead center on his own pillow, and still a perfectly respectable gap between the two of them, lying on their sides, facing each other.

Once he’s satisfied Felix won’t fall off the bed, Sylvain plants one arm under his pillow, to prop up his head, and pulls his other arm back from around Felix’s back, placing it palm down between them. That’s not too overbearing, right? Close, but not too close. Enough room between not to spook Felix.

“There,” Sylvain declares, grabbing his blankets and yanking at them so he can pull them over them both, “Now go to sleep.”

Felix shifts so he’s not lying on top of the covers and getting in his way, “...Whatever,” he mutters, “Stay on your side of the bed.”

“Ha, of course,” Sylvain agrees easily, a little smug at how smoothly this whole thing went, “Hey, do me a favour and snuff out the light.”

“Ugh,” Felix groans but gets up to do it, slapping the lamp so the flame goes out before dropping back onto the bed, yanking his hair out of its tie, sliding the band on his wrist before burrowing under the covers and settling himself properly on the mattress in a halfway comfortable position, facing Sylvain, leaving as much of a gap between them as he’s comfortable before closing his eyes.

“You’re gonna overheat if you keep the robe on,” Sylvain dares to say.

“I’m cold,” Felix responds, petulantly, and buries himself deeper a little in the covers.

Sylvain smiles, “Goodnight, grumpy pants,” he teases.

“Shut up, Sylvain,” Felix snarks back, in the dark.

Sylvain means to sleep, but it’s a lot harder to do than he expects. Every time he closes his eyes, he can’t help but peek one open again to see if Felix has fallen asleep.

Having Felix in his bed is a bit of a novelty. It’s been so many years since they shared a bed last, nearly eight years now, probably. The last time Felix had been scared for Sylvain; so much so he’d snuck through the empty haunted halls of the Gautier estate during his family’s visit to make sure Sylvain was still alive before he went to sleep.

Childhood scares really were something else, huh.

Sylvain gives up on trying to keep his eyes closed and just leaves them open, watching Felix breathe evenly, sharply, perfectly controlled in the faint light of the moon through his curtains. His brow’s still furrowed, like he’s annoyed. Sylvain shifts his hand between them, inches it a tiny bit closer. He can just feel the edge of Felix’s breaths, ghosting over his fingers.

Yeah, he’s definitely not asleep either.

Sylvain bites back a grin, “Hey, Felix,” he whispers.

“I thought we were sleeping,” Felix mutters back, but opens his eyes, squinting at him in the dark.

“You remember our promise, right, when we were kids?”

Felix blinks, slowly, taken aback, “Of course I do,” he says lowly, gaze flickering down to stare at Sylvain’s collarbones, instead of his face.

“Well, whatever happens tomorrow...” Sylvain says quietly, solemnly, as much as he is able, “I’m holding you to it, alright? No matter what, even if nothing happens at all. I’m here,” he dares to reach, his pinky catching Felix’s own between them: a swift hook, a shake, and release, “ No dying without me.”

Felix’s hand closes into a fist when Sylvain pulls back, his warm brown eyes seem to shine in the dark when he meets his gaze, “Same to you, idiot,” he orders, firmly.

Trust him to take a promise and turn it into a command.

Sylvain wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Ah nothing’s going to happen to me,” Sylvain replies offhand, stretching out on his side, “The Lions don’t even have a mission tomorrow.”

Felix shoves him over.

Sylvain laughs, rolling onto his back, smacking his shoulder into the wall. There really isn’t a lot of room on the dormitory beds for two growing men.

Felix huffs and resettles on his side, readjusting how he’s lying on his shoulder and closing his eyes again, ‘Goodnight, you fool,” he says, with finality, and falls silent, done with Sylvain’s nonsense.

For a long few moments, Sylvain just lies there on his back, staring at the dark of the ceiling, his shoulder uncomfortably squished against the wall. It feels significant, what just passed. He doesn’t know why he brought that old promise up, but he knows how seriously Felix took it as a child, terrified that he might lose his best friend to the cold in winter after a tumble into an old well. To know he still remembers it and is willing to echo it back when Sylvain gives it voice again brings to bloom a garden of contentment in his chest.

A lot of things come and go in Sylvain’s life, but Felix remains a constant. He just has to remember he’s there, even if he’s far away, at Fraldarius or Fhirdiad or wherever his duties take him, in the future.

It’s good to have something to rely on with such confidence. He hopes he’ll always have that.

Sylvain rolls back on his side to mirror Felix. He doesn’t stir, so Sylvain dares to inch a little closer, watchful.

Felix doesn’t move, his breaths are even, deep.

“Felix?” Sylvain whispers, quietly.

No reaction.

He’s really fallen asleep. Sylvain was right after all - all he needed was some company.

He’s buried himself under the covers, his head tucked towards his chin to gather warmth, so it’s easy for Sylvain to fit himself by him so his mouth is level with his forehead - Felix’s head scant inches away from being tucked into his shoulder - and thread his fingers gently through his hair.

“I promise, Felix,” Sylvain murmurs quietly against his forehead, like he’s imparting a vow, a precious secret between two best friends having a sleepover, “We’re gonna be okay.”

Felix shifts, curling closer, drawn in unconsciously to Sylvain’s warmth.

Sylvain lets him.

The next day when he wakes up, Felix is long gone to prepare for the holy mission his class has in the afternoon. There’s just the faint scent of him - clean soap, argan hair oil, and something undefinable - left on the spare pillow, the sheets they’d shared.

Sylvain stays a little longer in bed that day, taking the spare pillow and pulling it close, wrapping an arm around it, and closes his eyes just to imagine the warmth if Felix had stayed, with a faint scent memory to aid the imagery.

**~o.O.o~**

On the first week of the Lone Moon, imperial year 1180, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg of the Adrestian Empire officially declares war on the Church of Seiros and all its allies.

Graciously, she allows the members of her academy house, the Black Eagles - whom she’d warped out of the Holy Tomb when her army had attacked it - to leave her advanced army camp unscathed if they would not follow her goals and her ideals into the coming conflict. A final gesture of goodwill to everyone who she had come to know as classmates, allies, and friends, after a tumultuous year at the Officers Academy.

With the shadow of the approaching Imperial army bearing down on all of them at Garreg Mach, primed to arrive by the end of the moon, Sylvain and Ingrid rush to meet the ragtag group of students who are returning from Edelgard’s side. They’re a guilty, emotionally battered group of young men and women, supporting each other as they march slowly, hesitantly, back to the gates of the monastery their house leader and wayward professor had taken them from.

It’s a much smaller group than it has any right to be.

“Where’s Felix?” Sylvain asks, frantic, when he and Ingrid find Annette and Flayn in the group, taking the young mage’s hands in his own, looking for something to hold onto as the students disperse under the watch of the knights. Groups of them break off from the collective to speak with Church officials, house leaders and classmates of the houses they’d originally been part of before the Black Eagles, to give what precious information they could about what to expect, what they knew about Edelgard and her plans, “Annette, where is he?”

“Where’s Ashe?” Ingrid jumps in, “and Mercedes?” when Sylvain fails to, too focused on one person, his closest friend, the one he promised not to die without.

He could die; all of them could die in the next three weeks when the Empire’s armies arrive. Felix can’t not be here. He _has_ to be here.

Annette starts shaking, and Flayn looks on sadly, wrapping her arms around her and murmuring quietly. Seteth is calling for her - Sylvain can hear him, approaching them quickly - but Flayn stays just a while longer, to comfort the Kingdom mage.

“Annette,” Sylvain pleads, falling to his knees, begging her not to say what his brain is trying to tell him, the clear signs in front of him: Annette’s distress, the lack of familiar faces in this sorry group of students. If she says it out loud, it would make it real, and it _can’t_ be real.

Not like this.

She wraps her arms around his neck, buries her head in his shoulder, and starts to cry.

Sylvain wilts, falling back on his haunches where he kneels, arms falling limply to his side.

Turns out, she doesn’t have to say anything at all to break his heart.


	4. A Contradictory Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone important visits Garreg Mach. Felix learns some details and remembers others.

**Great Tree Moon  
** **1183  
** **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Nobody knows exactly when Hubert von Vestra arrives at Garreg Mach.

Just as he likes it, probably. As a man who operates mostly in shadow unless he’s at the Emperor’s side, attention is the last thing the Minister of the Imperial Household wants or needs. The point, after all, of the position is not for him to be seen at the Emperor’s side, but to be invisible, putting plans in order to ensure she can focus on her own goals, moving ever forward.

Felix doesn’t expect to be called to speak with Hubert anyway, so he’d woken up late after a dreamless night of sleep and spent the late morning unpacking his travel pack he’d left from the night, leisurely sorting his belongings and putting them away before wandering to the dining hall at the noon hour to break his fast.

The first hint he gets that Hubert might be at Garreg Mach is the imperial soldier interrupting his lunchtime conversation with Dorothea to inform him Ferdinand would like his presence in the old scholar's office on the second floor of the main building for a quick talk. Dorothea is only a little chagrined to see him go, but he knows she’s appeased enough by the prospect of future gossip. He hadn’t had much to tell her anyway - not about the whole situation with the fool walking up to Garreg Mach at least.

His second hint that Hubert might be at Garreg Mach is when Felix arrives in the scholar’s office as per Ferdinand’s request and finds he's not even there.

The third hint isn't so much a hint as it is a confirmation, because the person seated behind Professor Hanneman’s old desk is Hubert von Vestra himself, and standing behind him is the Lance of Ruin in all its awful glory, leaning up against the office windows, the ruby crest stone staring deep into his soul.

Felix recoils physically at the sight of the relic, “What. The fu--”

“So you didn’t know,” Hubert observes, from where he’s seated, reaching to pour a cup of tea at the seating across from him, his own cup of Albinean coffee already steaming gently before him.

“Know what?” Felix hisses, smothering his surprise with anger, “That you somehow have _that_ Goddess damned-”

“That Gautier brought this with him,” Hubert says, simply, gesturing for him to sit, “When he... arrived, at Garreg Mach.”

Felix doesn’t sit, but he does close the door behind him, “Sylvain,” he says slowly, “Came here. With... the Lance of Ruin.”

“Only the Lance of Ruin,” Hubert confirms, reaching for his own cup, unbothered by Felix’s refusal to sit, “This was his only weapon. Though,” he muses, off hand. “I suppose you could also consider a horse to be a weapon.”

Felix looks up at the relic, then back down at Hubert, “...Why would...” he struggles to word his thoughts, “How did he--” he cuts himself off.

Sylvain coming to Garreg Mach is one matter - after all, Margrave Gautier can hold the border against Sreng in the worst case scenario for the Kingdom. Sylvain coming with his house relic is a whole other beast: it compounds problems for the Kingdom by a factor of at least three. He should never have gotten away with it.

Given how long it takes to travel from Fhirdiad or Gautier to Garreg Mach, even on horseback, and the ostentatiousness of the relic of his house, much less Sylvain himself, it’s a marvel Sylvain made the trip and arrived at the gates of the monastery without having been accosted by Kingdom forces on the way.

Improbable, at least.

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Hubert responds, to his unfinished thought.

Felix takes a seat, reaching for the cup of tea to steady his numb hands - four-spice blend today - and frowns at the dark bishop across from him, “Then why are you speaking with me?”

“You were friends,” Hubert says, simply.

Felix scowls. The insinuation is there. Does Hubert believe the two of them took part in collusion for Sylvain to make it here? Felix hasn’t even been near Garreg Mach for the last four weeks and hasn’t set foot in Kingdom territory for many moons; not since... not since his last major injury. “It’s been two years, von Vestra,” he snarls, “Whatever you’re saying just say it directly.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Hubert dismisses, “I’m trying to get insight into how our guest thinks and you’re the best equipped to shed any light on his behaviour.”

Felix doesn’t respond. He turns his glare down to the desk surface instead. Trying to argue with Hubert is a waste of time and just makes him feel stupid, there’s no way to convince him he doesn’t know Sylvain anymore, not until Hubert asks all his questions and gets answers to enough of them to reach a conclusion himself.

“You’re also from the Kingdom,” Hubert continues after a sip of coffee, “You knew the lords at the King’s roundtable, perhaps in a limited capacity, but you know at the least the Shield of Faerghus and the current King. Any insight into their thinking would be of great benefit to our own plans.”

A sudden thought occurs to Felix, “Ferdinand never said Sylvain brought...”

Hubert glances aside, “He was ordered to be discrete,” he says, and sounds almost impressed Ferdinand managed it, “A relic is a serious matter. The shift of balance in the number of usable relics from one side to the other could make the difference on the right fields of battle.”

That’s an understatement given the history of House Gautier and its relic. The mythos of the Lance of Ruin can be considered significant enough on its own to repel Srengi assault - for generations the power of the relic made Gautiers masters of the north and consistently allowed them to best Sreng in battle.

To lose it could spell the end of the house itself.

“I, of course, expect the same level of discretion from you in regards to this.”

Privately, Felix thinks that if Hubert wants subtlety on this matter it would be better achieved without the Lance of Ruin in front of the window, but nods his assent. He takes a sip of tea and sets the cup aside, “What are you trying to find out?”

“Why Gautier came here, for one.”

“I don’t know the answer to that.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Hubert responds without a beat, “But I believe you would be able confirm my suspicions.”

Felix shakes his head, “I can’t promise anything.”

“Every bit of information can build a story. I simply believe you have the most information that I could consider reliable enough to construct the right hypothesis.”

Somehow, Felix doubts that Hubert could be satisfied with mere hypothesis: a man in his position prefers certainties. Still, given the ridiculous nature of Sylvain’s arrival and the suddenness with which is happened, maybe hypothesis is the best Hubert is going to get for now.

“Have you spoken to Sylvain?” Felix asks.

“I’d rather gather as much information as I can first before I brave a conversation with Gautier,” Hubert curls his lip in contempt, “Ferdinand informs me he’s been nothing but trouble.”

Felix snorts, “Really.” That’s not surprising. Sylvain can be infuriating when he’s not trying to be. Felix know exactly what he’s like when he wants to be infuriating and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. At least none of his allies.

“A contrary man, the Gautier heir is,” Hubert mutters, “I feel he’s... unhappy in his position and acting out.”

Felix hums, but doesn’t comment.

“Why do you think Gautier would come to Garreg Mach?” Hubert asks, deciding to start his line of questioning directly.

“I don’t know,” Felix responds instantly. He doesn’t know. Nobody could know without asking Sylvain.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says with a sneer, “Says he might have made the trip for you.”

“I never asked him to,” Felix responds, crossing his arms with a frown, “I’m just one man anyway. It’s a stupid reason to throw away his life for.”

Hubert considers this, taking another sip of his coffee, “Do you believe he came with intentions to kill you for betraying the Kingdom?”

“No.”

Hubert raises a brow, “Awfully sure of that, aren’t you.”

“Sylvain isn’t one for assassination,” Felix says with certainty, “Besides he’s...”

Hubert waits.

“He wouldn’t be able to kill me,” Felix says simply. Felix’s certainty that he could best Sylvain in close combat aside, he just can’t imagine Sylvain having a go if he’s given the opportunity. Not against him. “He’s not stupid enough to try it. Not like this.”

“Even if ordered by his King?”

Felix grits his teeth at the idea of the boar giving such an order and shakes his head, “If he was under orders, the Margrave would never allow it and he holds more than enough power to stop it from happening. Sylvain is too important to Gautier. If this was a plot, it’s for a suicide mission. The Kingdom wouldn’t gain anything from it,” Felix turns his head away, eyes focused on a stain on the floor, “I’m not worth the trade.”

Hubert hums. It’s a sound Felix has come to know as ‘vague disagreement’. Apparently Hubert places his worth greater than Sylvain’s. Flattering, but misinformed, especially when it comes to Kingdom priorities at this point in the war. “How much would the Kingdom stand to lose if Gautier changed sides?” the dark bishop asks.

“Enough.”

The silence afterwards is clear indication that the answer is not nearly enough for Hubert.

Felix sighs and grudgingly elaborates, “Gautier needs the lance,” he explains, “If Sylvain left alone, the Margrave could handle the northern border, at least temporarily, so long as he has the Lance. Sylvain taking the Lance with him... complicates matters. If or when Sreng catches wind of its loss, Faerghus will be menaced from two sides by two different forces,” he glances up at the Lance leaning against the window behind Hubert, “You already know the worth of a working relic, in battle.”

“...Gautier aside,” Hubert says, tapping his finger on the side of his cup, ”How would his disappearance affect the King?”

Felix meets his gaze, “Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”

Poorly, is how the boar would react, as he does to most things. His temper is becoming legendary as the war drags on. Felix can imagine the boar’s reaction to his own act of betrayal, back when the war began. A reaction to Sylvain supposedly doing the same, and unexpectedly as well, would be no better.

If the boar reacts poorly, the lords who follow him react similarly. He doesn’t even want to know how the Margrave would react. The man had placed all of his hopes of his house on his only crest-bearing son: the weight of his expectations and his imposed will so heavy it has been crushing Sylvain slowly throughout his life. Sylvain’s disappearance would render him impotent with rage.

“How did Sylvain even get this far south with the Lance?” Felix wonders, quietly. Considering the importance of the heir and the relic to Gautier, if not all of Faerghus, it’s a mystery as to how he made it at all.

“We don’t have a wealth of information from northern Faerghus,” Hubert informs him, “It’s difficult enough maintaining the channels we have to Fhirdiad given the paranoia of the Archbishop and the Tempest King both.”

Felix nods. So even Hubert has trouble getting reliable information out of Fhirdiad - counterintelligence organized by the powerful military houses of Faerghus and the Church itself must be formidable. Felix can attest to, at least, the robustness of Fraldarius’ spy network in his past and know it rivals Hubert’s personal cadre of imperial spies.

“Still,” the dark bishop continues, “The details emerging have been... interesting.”

Felix frowns, curious, “Tell me.”

“It appears the Gautier heir was travelling from Fhirdiad to Gautier territory, on the orders of his father,” Hubert states, repeating what must be intelligence he no doubt had heard from one of his sources, “Midway through the journey, the Gautier cavalry escorting the heir were... ambushed and eliminated in their entirety. Supposedly, in the chaos, the Gautier heir slipped away. We now know, of course, where he ended up.”

Felix shakes off the brief drop of concern his gut, “Sylvain was attacked?”

Hubert chuckles, “Perhaps. However, I do find it interesting that an entire escort was wiped from the map and yet what they were escorting gets away with nary a scratch.”

Felix narrows his eyes, “What are you saying?”

“To be honest, I initially thought of collusion,” Hubert says, “Perhaps this was a planned escape: Gautier cooperating with another party to escape his escort and the eye of his father and his King, to come to Garreg Mach.”

That’s just more confusing. “Who would help Sylvain leave the Kingdom to enter the Empire?”

“Nobody, of course,” Hubert scoffs, “No force besides our own, and I know with certainty no Empire forces were involved in this particular turn of events. Gautier’s arrival was entirely a surprise,” He sneers, “Even the Savage Mockingbird could not have slipped this one by.”

Felix looks down at the desk, bringing a hand up to his mouth in thought, “Then...”

“Of course, this assumes we are aware of all parties involved in the war,” Hubert continues, ever cautious and constantly thinking of new possibilities, “It’s very possible the Gautier heir has found a group willing to help him make his escape happen that we don’t know the identity of. I believe this to be the most likely possibility.”

 _'But who?'_ Felix thinks. Even working with bandits or groups of self-serving mercenaries within Fódlan would not have afforded Sylvain such an easy journey to Garreg Mach. Inexplicable loyalties to the home nation states are always at play. If Sylvain headed to imperial territory, assuming the group he cooperated with was from Faerghus or even the Alliance, they’d never let him make it to the Empire. That aside, given the suddenness of Sylvain’s actions and his lack of prior communication with the Empire as a noble heir of the Kingdom, any self serving group willing to help him would just as soon turn on him and return him to Fhirdiad for a reward. It’s war, times are tough, and helping Sylvain reach the Empire is not profitable, even if he paid them handsomely - something that wouldn’t have escaped the Margrave Gautier’s notice besides.

Sreng, perhaps? Felix dismisses the thought easily. That’s not remotely possible, not with the history between Gautier and the northern territory. Any Srengi group would just kill Sylvain, rather than entertain any foolish plans to extricate him from the north to the south.

“New details are emerging, of course. In regards to the ambush.”

Felix looks back at Hubert.

“I have no way of finding out for myself what happened,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “The site is much too far north in the depths of Kingdom territory for me to waste Empire resources investigating personally. Whispers in Fhirdiad, however...”

Felix straightens in his seat.

“It appears the damage wrought on Gautier’s escort was inflicted by a Heroes’ Relic.”

Felix blinks, “...A relic?” he asks in surprise.

“...It’s premature to come to a conclusion based on second hand gossip from the halls of Castle Blaiddyd,” Hubert says with a glance to the side, “But... the whispers of gossip are saying that Gautier himself participated in elimination of his escort,” he waves a hand to the side, gesturing at the relic behind him, “With this very Lance.”

That’s... ridiculous. That makes no sense at all. Sylvain attacking his own people? With his own relic? What could he possibly gain from doing that?

“How can you be sure it was the Lance of Ruin and not any other Relic?” Felix asks, sharply.

“I can’t be entirely certain,” Hubert replies simply, “But Relics are also rare weapons, and each is tied to a noble house given the necessity of a crest to use one. Any side allowing even a single relic to be unaccounted for is asking for trouble.”

Felix sets his jaw when Hubert narrows his eyes at him.

“At this time, the only relic that can be placed at the scene of the crime is the Lance of Ruin. There shouldn’t be any others wandering in the wilds, tearing up Gautier escorts on a whim.”

There aren’t that many crested bloodlines out there. Felix knows as a former heir of one such line himself and the names of each house have long been ingrained in his memory. Hubert’s right: none of them, that he is aware of, would be inclined to do such a thing or logistically be able to do it while concealing their involvement.

“There’s always the professor, of course,” Hubert says, and Felix glances at him, eyes sharp, “but I doubt even she is so inscrutable in her movements or choices, if she’s even alive.”

Felix looks down again. It couldn’t be the professor. There’s no reason for her to be so far north in Faerghus, especially with how vehemently the Church wants her dead and without anybody being aware of her presence. She would have returned to Garreg Mach first, before all else.

At least, that’s the hope.

“If Sylvain is the one who turned on his own people,” Felix says through his teeth, “Why would he do it?”

It would have to be a strong reason. Sylvain isn’t the kind of man to do so much damage impulsively; not to other people, at least. He’s not like that.

“A question I also have,” Hubert replies.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Felix says, his mind spinning away from him, his thoughts trying to stitch together reasons for such an act. His mind comes up empty.

“I’ve been considering as many reasons as I can,” Hubert says, “but I don’t believe any of them hold true. Gautier has always been cooperative to orders he received from the Kingdom. He’s never reached out or shown indications he doubted the word of the Church or considered joining the Empire. He has friends and family in Fhirdiad and Gautier, and no means of support in the Empire to join for... sentimental reasons.”

Felix meets his gaze.

“Except for you,” Hubert says, his gaze pinning him to his chair before he glances away again, the weight of his scrutiny abruptly gone as quick as it was put upon him, “But as you stated before: you are just one man. It’s a high risk mission for one man to undertake alone for so little to gain.”

Felix scoffs, looking away again.

Hubert hums, “I’m considering it but I believe there’s more to the story.”

Felix doesn’t respond immediately, taking the moment to mull over what he’s learned.

Sylvain left Faerghus and supposedly killed an escort of Gautier men to do it. Why would he do such an absurd thing and in one fell sweep make himself a criminal of Faerghus, before moving south to Garreg Mach?

Assuming he did it of his own free will.

If Sylvain did it, what was he hoping to accomplish?

It takes a moment of thought, but a possibility emerges eventually - a simple progression of logic.

“Whoever... arranged to kill Sylvain’s escort, whether it was himself or someone else, maybe they didn’t want him to make it to Gautier,” Felix realizes quietly.

An escort ensures his safety but also ensures he arrives at his destination. Sylvain’s escort was killed, and after that he did not arrive at the destination he was supposed to travel to.

It’s absolutely absurd, what has happened, but... it makes sense, given the limited information they have, of course. Felix can’t claim to know what Sylvain’s life has been like in the last two years. What life has been like for him in Fhirdiad or in Gautier, what his responsibilities are beyond those he has to the northern border - these are unknown, without talking to Sylvain.

“That’s the only thing that makes sense so far,” Felix says, looking back at Hubert.

Hubert doesn’t look convinced, “Trying to keep him from fighting Sreng?” he muses, “Then why not just keep him in Fhirdiad? Given Gautier’s perfect health in the wake of so devastating an attack on his travel party, he must be cooperating with whoever helped him, assuming they exist. Certainly if the King is his friend, he could secure a reason to remain away from Gautier territory; there’s no need for this two-bit mystery theater. Faerghus obeys the word of their King, above all else.”

That’s true. The word of the King overrides all else, in the Kingdom. The leaders of the Church of Seiros reside in Fhirdiad now as well, with Garreg Mach in Empire hands, but Felix can’t imagine even they override the King’s absolute rule. If Sylvain really wanted, he could have asked the boar to override his father’s orders.

That, of course, assumes Sylvain thought to ask.

Sylvain hates to trouble others with his desires - at least those he cares about, if he believes they aren’t involved. Felix hates it, but he cannot help but consider that Sylvain bowed to duty, as he always does when it comes to the will of Gautier and his father. Asking the boar to refuse the Margrave on Sylvain’s behalf is not something he would have done.

Given Sylvain’s history of appeasing his father on matters of duty - outside of finding a suitable wife and siring an heir - it still doesn’t explain why he would defy his father in this manner. If that’s the reason at all.

And to collaborate with an unknown group to achieve it? Do a whole run around that kills a whole battalion of Gautier knights as collateral? What would be the point?

Then, of course, there’s the question of Sylvain making his way to Garreg Mach. He would never have been able to do that if he pulled strings to stay in Fhirdiad and avoid Gautier.

“Gautier’s mysterious acts of destruction aside,” Hubert says, pulling Felix from his thoughts, “If his expressed desire to join the empire is genuine, as I’ve been told he claims, do you believe Gautier truly is interested in joining the Empire?”

Felix looks away, “I don’t know.”

Hubert’s mouth twitches in mild irritation, “Is he sympathetic to Lady Edelgard’s ideals?”

“He could be,” Felix responds without a pause.

Hubert’s expression doesn’t change, but Felix thinks his silence belies his surprise.

“Sylvain...” Felix hesitates, tries again, “Sylvain hates crests, he... a world where they didn’t matter... he wouldn’t be opposed to it, if it could happen.”

“Hm, and yet he never joined our class at the Academy,” Hubert says, mildly.

Felix shakes his head, “He didn’t.”

“I suppose not,” Hubert murmurs easily, “He was never much for.. thoughtful decision-making.”

Sylvain’s reputation back at the academy was never a good one, especially to those outside his house and circle of friends. A notorious philanderer, Sylvain had a reputation for dalliance and barely passing his courses, cruising through the year on his advantages as a noble heir. He was known to be invested more in getting to know as many girls at the academy as possible before he had to go home and finally be a responsible heir to his house. Felix knows the reputation was more fluff than substance, and that Sylvain passed his classes because he knew exactly how much effort he needed to put in to pass without having to expend additional effort or brainpower so he could devote his time to other pursuits. Whatever Sylvain's reasons for declining his invite to the Black Eagle house, Felix trusts that they were good ones. The philandering is true, however. He can't really dispute that.

Felix could correct Hubert on technicalities but that would be a headache in itself and it wouldn’t change anything to discuss it. He doesn’t feel like delving into the nuances of Sylvain’s psyche with Hubert, of all people. The irrational sense that he would be betraying Sylvain’s trust aside, it would be a deeply uncomfortable conversation for Felix to have, with or without Sylvain present.

“So,” Hubert continues, “He could be amenable to Lady Edelgard’s goals... however...” he prompts.

“Sylvain is...” Felix huffs, “He’s loyal. To the people he loves... his friends... I...” he swallows, “I have a hard time seeing him turning against the b-- the King, and his closest friends. To fight them in battle with the conviction that’s needed in war.”

“I see,” Hubert replies neutrally.

Felix glares at him, “If you have something to say, then say it.”

Hubert tilts his head in question, “Do you believe Gautier considers you to be a close friend?”

“...I...” Felix meets his eyes, then looks away, “I don’t know.”

“But you were close friends once.”

“Yes.”

He isn’t sure ‘close friends’ is enough to describe the depth of their friendship, back when they were younger, and from even before the Academy. But for Hubert’s purposes, the moniker ought to be enough.

“...Well,” Hubert says, finally, “I doubt I’ll get anything more talking in circles with you. I think I may have enough to speak with Gautier himself.”

Felix silently agrees, but doesn’t voice it.

“You may go,” Hubert dismisses, pulling a piece of paper from the side, reaching for a quill, his ink, to write.

Felix stands, turns to the door, reconsiders, and turns back, “...I’ve been thinking,” he says.

Hubert stops writing, but does not look up.

“I think I should speak with him.”

Hubert sets his quill down again, and looks at him.

Felix stares back, the breath frozen in his lungs at his own daring to ask. The thought had been something he’d been mulling, since Yuri mentioned that he could, yesterday, and Felix realized he wasn’t ready at the time.

Since then, he’s decided: he does want to speak with Sylvain. At the least he’ll find out why he’s here. Beyond that... it would bring closure.

Felix doesn’t think he can hope for something beyond that.

Two years they’ve been apart. The last time they’d been in each other’s company... it had been an abrupt separation: without warning and no explanation to one another. Ever since they ended up on separate sides, Sylvain has been a thought he tried to keep in the back of his mind, a faraway worry if he ever had to consider fighting him in battle - a possibility that thankfully never came to pass.

Even if he’s not sure what to expect, he owes it to Sylvain, who is languishing in a cell somewhere with nowhere to go and Hubert’s decision the axe over his neck.

“I’ll consider it,” Hubert says, finally.

Felix releases the breath he’s holding.

“Given your certainty he isn’t here to hurt you,” Hubert continues, “I believe we can risk allowing you and him to speak in person. I do believe you would best him if he attempted to hurt you, and you know better than anyone the cost of underestimating a potential foe,” he smirks, “Besides, if my questioning doesn’t untangle his contradictions, I believe speaking with you would cause him to reveal some truths.”

Felix nods once and opens the door, “...Let me know.”

“Of course,” Hubert agrees easily, “Good day, Fraldarius.”

Felix shuts the door behind him when he leaves, walks down the hall, and leans against the wall by the stairwell heading downstairs, sliding into a crouch.

Every new piece of information about Sylvain’s journey to Garreg Mach only makes a muddier image. Without any inclination he’d disagreed with Faerghus or agreed with the Empire, he leaves the Kingdom and asks to join the imperial army. With the full confidence of the King and his family after two years of steadfast loyalty to the Kingdom’s goals, he may have made plans to kill a squadron of his own soldiers with his relic and betrays their trust without warning. Knowing his House’s reliance on him and his relic after years of obedience to his duty to his house, he steals away and all but gifts his relic to the opposite side in war.

What is that fool _doing_?

Felix huffs. The brief burst of amusement doesn’t last long.

Sylvain is as predictable as he is not. Hubert had been mildly surprised Sylvain had harboured thoughts that he had misgivings with the crest system. Felix, on the other hand, had always known it. He’d always thought Sylvain would have joined the Black Eagle class back at the academy.

And yet he didn’t: declining when he was offered and never pursued the option afterwards.

Felix sighs, crossing his arms over his knees, starting blankly at the floor.

If Sylvain had joined the class, which side would he have ended up on, when the war broke out?

Felix takes a breath and stands,

He supposes he’ll never know.

**~o.O.o~**

**Horsebow Moon  
** **1180**  
 **Summer  
** **Garreg Mach**

Sylvain’s missing.

Well, probably not actually missing. He hasn’t left the monastery - that, Felix is certain of - but nobody’s seen him for days - missing class, missing assigned chores. He hasn’t even been seen on the first free day of the moon: no meals with friends, no tea with girls, not even a wander through the marketplace.

It’s completely irresponsible, incredibly out of character, and yet nobody has tried to set him straight. Thoughtlessly leaving him be, or, perhaps, tiptoeing around his presence.

Felix supposes everyone’s been treating it as a delicate matter. It’s only been one week since Miklan Anschutz Gautier was killed at Conand Tower and buried in the dirt beneath its looming shadow.

Sylvain had buried Miklan himself, using a rusted shovel and the blade of his battered steel lance to carve a shallow grave in the mud. Felix had watched him do it, keeping him company in the rain. Sylvain had refused everyone’s help to dig - even the professor’s - and she eventually relented, standing at a distance, watching them with a mildly disapproving, maybe concerned look on her blank face.

They’d stood there after he’d rolled the body in, wrapped with a dirty canvas cloth, and filled the sorry thing in, standing side by side in the silence, drenched by the evening summer rains.

Sylvain hadn’t cried.

But when they’d returned to the monastery, he’d vanished from public eye.

Seven days since, and Felix has determined that that’s more than enough time spent wallowing over the death of a bitter monster who wasn’t worthy of it. So after afternoon class, before his assigned chore rotation, he storms determinedly through the dormitory to the door at the end of the hall and knocks on the door.

There’s no answer, but there is a muffled noise and the clink of what sounds like a bottle.

Felix scowls, reaches for the doorknob, twists, and shoves.

The door rattles in the frame, held fast by the lock, and doesn’t open.

“Sylvain,” Felix states, firmly, through the door.

Silence.

“I know you’re in there,” Felix says, and waits.

It takes a moment. There’s a long pause - long enough for Felix to consider leaving, returning at a later time after his shift at the stables - before there’s a slow shuffling noise and the click of the lock.

Felix swings open the door before it can be locked again.

Sylvain blinks at him, hand raised. “Uh,” he says.

He looks... tired. Felix’s sweeps his gaze critically over his friend. There’s dark circles around his eyes, his hair is a mess - not artfully, like it usually is - parts flattened and mussed like he’s been lying on it for hours. There’s a faint shadow of stubble on his chin and he’s barely presentable, his shirt half unbuttoned, no academy jacket in sight, his pants wrinkled. He’s not wearing shoes. Or socks.

“How many days have you been in here?” Felix asks, walking in, shutting the door behind him, bullying Sylvain backwards into the heart of his room again, “Have you even left to wash?”

“Yeah?” Sylvain says, glancing away, scratching at his jaw, sounding half-heartedly irritated at the insinuation, “I have standards.”

He doesn’t smell, so maybe Felix will give him that. His gaze darts through the room instead. The bed’s a mess, the desk is empty, curtains drawn, blotting out the light of the afternoon sun. Sylvain flops down on his bed, kicking his heels backwards in what Felix supposes is meant to be a subtle action but only manages to call attention to the collection of bottles he’s hidden in the shadow of the bed frame, the clink of them falling over echoing in the room.

That’s not even the worst of it: in the far corner of the room, leaning against the desk, is the menacing, pointed shadow of the Lance of Room, leaning in the corner between the far wall and the desk. Sylvain’s rumpled academy jacket is haphazardly thrown over it. It doesn’t do anything to disguise even half the great head of the relic or its spines.

“You’re a mess,” Felix declares, moving to stand directly in front of Sylvain’s seated figure, staring him in the eye.

Sylvain huffs out a sharp breath of air through his nose, hunching in on himself, scowling at Felix’s legs, “Okay,” he says, annoyed, “Do you have a reason for being here, or are you just here to yell at me? Because I’m not in the mood.”

“Nobody’s seen you for days, Sylvain!” Felix chides, “You’re missing class, skipping group tasks, you don’t eat, how are you expecting to graduate this year if you don’t do anything you’re supposed to!”

“You sound like Ingrid,” Sylvain mutters, and Felix knows he’s just trying to make him mad.

His temper rises, but he refuses to let it rule him. Sylvain knows getting him angry will make him leave. He forgets Felix knows his own flaws better than anyone else. “Take this seriously,” he orders.

Sylvain looks up at him, eyes bright in the darkness, despite the ring of shadow around them, then he glances down and huffs a quiet laugh.

“What?” Felix says, his temper flaring as he glares.

“Nothing,” Sylvain says, waving it off, “Just... funny to see you worried about little old me.”

Oh, he’s said it now. “Sylvain!” Felix snaps.

“Look,” Sylvain says, leaning back on the bed, scratching his head, “Thanks for checking on me, but as you can see I’m fine. I just...” he sighs, “I just needed some time. I’ll be back in class tomorrow."

That’s not good enough. Felix crosses his arms and starts to pace, “If you’re going to join the Eagles, you can’t laze around doing nothing. You need to put the work in.”

As far as the Professor is concerned, Sylvain had trialed well for last month’s mission. His personal stake in it aside, the preparation before it and his contributions leading up to the assault on Conand tower were significant. He got along with Dorothea and Ferdinand, respected Edelgard’s command, and, of course, followed the professor’s guidance with almost minimal distraction and flirtation. He and Felix, of course, were a practiced unit from a childhood of sparring and cooperation. He’s all but accepted to join the class properly and he’d be a fool to start on the wrong foot.

“Oh, Felix...” Sylvain says, hesitantly, sitting up straight again before leaning forward, wringing his hands on his lap.

Felix stops pacing, absently knocking the desk chair properly back in its place, “What?”

Sylvain takes a breath, “I’m not...” he opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, “I’m not joining your class,” he says, in a quick rush.

“...Oh.”

That’s... unexpected. Felix blinks, gaze darting to the side. There’s a lump in his throat. Something like disappointment making a home in his chest. Had he been wrong in his assessment? He was sure the professor...

“That’s...” Felix says, haltingly, “Okay.”

Did Sylvain turn the choice... down? He was always complaining about Professor Hanneman, surely...

“Wait,” Sylvain says, “You’re not mad are you?”

Why would he be mad?

“No,” Felix shakes his head, swallowing back his disappointment. It wouldn’t do to air it, not while Sylvain’s like this, “You joining the class has nothing to do with me,” he lies.

“...You’re disappointed though,” Sylvain says, with absolute pinpoint accuracy.

Felix huffs, “No, it’s...” he shakes his head again, crossing his arms, “Sylvain, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says.

Felix glares, his temper rising again, “Why are you apologizing?” he rebukes, “I just said it doesn’t matter.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything, staring at the floor, wringing his hands, rubbing his knuckles and his joints absently between them.

Felix sighs, feeling the fight leave him in a rush, dropping his arms by his side, “Sylvain...” he says, as gently as he’s able, “Are you okay?”

It takes a moment, but eventually Sylvain looks up, manages a wry upturn of the corner of his lip, and says “...Yeah. I think I will be.”

Felix isn’t one for comfort. He doesn’t know how to provide it, even after an early childhood being smothered by it. But he takes a breath, and tries.

Moving slowly, he strides closer, and takes a seat next to Sylvain, on his mess of a bed; close enough to touch, not enough to overstep his boundaries.

Sylvain looks over, manages a brief smile before looking away again at the floor, “You know, I...”

Felix turns his head towards him.

“I can’t believe he’s gone, you know.”

Felix blinks, keeping his gaze on Sylvain, “...Miklan?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain nods, a slow motion, dragged on by the weight of his history, the shadow of his older brother, “It’s just... It’s so weird to me.”

There are no words Felix has to offer, so he continues to offer his ear instead.

“Like,” Sylvain continues, “I know when he was kicked out that... he was gone, but,” he gestures absently, “He wasn’t _gone_ -gone, you know? But now...”

Felix frowns, “...He’s dead,” he says simply. Fact.

Sylvain breathes out a stuttering breath, “Yeah,” he murmurs, “He is.”

If Felix didn’t know any better, he’d say Sylvain is _sad_.

Felix turns away, glaring at Sylvain’s empty desk, “He deserved it,” he says, lowly.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, a gentle rebuke for speaking ill of the dead.

Irritation makes itself known, the pent up anger and fear, of years of suspecting, knowing what Sylvain suffered at the hands of his brother, “He did,” Felix declares, “He spent years acting like a monster, so he turned into one and died for it. Fitting.”

“...He was my brother,” Sylvain responds.

Felix clenches his fists. He can feel the points of an old battered spur, sitting in his pocket, high against his thigh, “Not where it counted,” he whispers harshly.

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees, “I guess not.”

For a long moment, they just sit in silence. There’s nothing Felix wants to say anymore, about Miklan or the oppressive ghost of his memory, with the boon of what they’d retrieved after his death sitting in the corner of Sylvain’s room, menacing everyone who dares to look over at it.

Neither of them look at it.

“So,” Sylvain says, after a long silence, cracking under it. He’s never been able to sit in the quiet for long, not with company.

Felix looks over at him.

“The professor,” Sylvain stutters, “Um... She offered to teach me, she asked me to join the uh, her class.”

Felix waits for Sylvain to find his words, to say his piece.

“I turned her down,” Sylvain breathes. A confession.

Felix huffs, “You, turning down a girl? That’s new.”

“Yeah, I...” Sylvain gives a crooked grin, “I dunno, I just... felt I wouldn’t fit in. Better to stay where I am, can’t leave Ingrid alone to handle His Highness, right?”

“Fitting in has never been a problem for you.”

Sylvain blinks, taken aback by the straightforward statement. Felix hopes he recognizes it as the compliment it is, “Thanks?” the older teen manages, “I...” he trails off again, gaze darting off, distant.

Felix frowns, tilting his head, “Did something happen?”

“Well...” Sylvain says reluctantly, “The imperial princess said something to me and--”

“What did she say.” Felix interrupts. Did Edelgard tell Sylvain not to join? Was he not good enough for her? Awfully rich of her to make that assessment when she’s not the one teaching.

“Whoa, Felix,” Sylvain placates, tempering his indignity, stopping him from jumping too far to conclusions, “No need for that! She just made me realize it isn’t for me, that’s all. You know I don’t always think before I do something so, it just... made me think before I did something stupid.”

Felix scowls. Of course Sylvain would somehow think himself into believing switching classes could somehow be a stupid move, even in the face of all the evidence in the last month that it’s not.

“Not that being in the same class as you would be stupid!” Sylvain blurts, suddenly, “I just meant-”

“It’s fine,” Felix says, turning away. Sylvain’s choices are his own. Even if he’s disappointed... he made the choice to switch first. He shouldn’t take for granted that anyone would follow him, not even one of his closest friends.

“Okay,” Sylvain says, easily, knocking his shoulder against his, “But I need you to know that... it’s not you.”

“Of course I know it’s not me,” Felix replies, impatiently, “It’s your education, you should... make the best choices for yourself.”

“Still...” Sylvain mumurs, leaning against him, “It just... It kinda sucks I won’t get to hang out with you in class.”

“Good,” Felix declares, tipping his head up with a nod, “Then you can’t distract me.”

“Ouch,” Sylvain leans away suddenly, an expression of abject hurt on his face, “You really don’t mince words, do you?”

Felix backtracks at his expression. He hadn’t meant to wound with his words, “That’s not...” he stammers, “I didn’t...”

“Hey, whatever,” Sylvain says, recovering easily - was that a joke? - leaning back in, “It’s not like we’re gonna stop being friends, right?”

“Of course not!” Felix exclaims, “We’re just in different classes,” he says quickly, “There’s plenty of time throughout the year.”

Sylvain grins, there’s something like cheer coming back to it, “So we’ll still hang out?” he asks, knocking his shoulder against Felix’s again.

“Yes, Sylvain,” Felix says, clearly, “We’ll still spend time together.”

Sylvain just smiles, a small private thing, as he looks down at his knees. Felix is glad to see it: there’s a small flash of contentment, heat rising in his cheeks.

“Someone needs to push you to keep up with your lancework,” Felix declares, looking away - it’s too much suddenly -, “And I know the boar isn’t going to insist on it with you.”

“Oh come on,” Sylvain whines, dropping his head on Felix’s shoulder, “We’re going to do other stuff besides train, right?”

Felix shifts his shoulder, trying to nudge him off, “Hm.”

Sylvain relents, sitting back up with a sigh.

“Do you...” Felix ventures, hesitantly, “Do you think you might join... later in the year?”

“...I dunno,” Sylvain shrugs, “Probably not.”

Felix swallows back his disappointment again. It’s Sylvain’s choice, he reminds himself. It’s not up to him, “Whatever Edelgard said to you...”

“Don’t hold it against her, Fe,” Sylvain says, reasonably, “It’s not like she knows...” he hesitates, gestures blankly at the forbidden corner of the room without looking, “You know...”

Felix doesn’t know, but he can guess. Edelgard isn’t from Faerghus. She doesn’t understand the same customs, the weight of responsibility that comes with every noble house of the Kingdom. The history of Gautier, of Sylvain, of Miklan.

Whatever she said to Sylvain must have failed to account for it, and Sylvain realized he’d have trouble working with her. It would be difficult to join a class if you couldn’t get along with the house leader.

“...Alright,” Felix says, letting the matter rest.

Sylvain releases a great breath and flops over, leaning right on Felix and collapsing all his weight on him, “Ugh I’m gonna miss you so much,” he groans as Felix struggles between shoving Sylvain off or trying to balance him on his smaller frame.

“Stop being stupid, Sylvain.” Felix rebukes, deciding it’s not worth the struggle to hold him up, and shoving at him, “You've lived without me in your class for one moon already. Besides, it’s just class. We’re still here, at the monastery.”

Sylvain refuses to budge, planting an arm over Felix’s shoulder to steady himself so he can really lean right on him.

Felix rolls his eyes, giving up and letting him use him as a prop up, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll...”

Sylvain turns his head to stare him in the eye through his lashes.

He’s uncomfortably close, Felix glances away, willing the heat away from his cheeks, “We can... hang out a few days each moon.”

Sylvain feigns dismay, “You weren’t going to before?”

“Not-- I meant just between us!” Felix exclaims, “As... friends.”

Sylvain leans back, taking his weight off of Felix, “No training though?” he asks, “Like we’re just going to hang out.”

Felix scowls, “Sylvain!” he scolds.

“Okay,” Sylvain acquiesces with a wince, “Some training.”

Felix huffs and turns away.

Sylvain laughs, “...Yeah,” he agrees, “I’d like that.”

Felix nods, once, an agreement to terms, “...Okay,” he says, simply, and stands.

“Thanks, Fe,” Sylvain says, as Felix adjusts his sword belt, “I appreciate it.”

He doesn’t specify what for: the talk, the agreement, or listening about Miklan.

He doesn’t have to.

“Good,” Felix says, turning towards the door, “I have to...” he gestures, “Meet Petra at the stables, so...”

He’s probably late.

“Oh. Alright, yeah,” Sylvain stands too, walking him to the door - unnecessary, given the small space of the room, but Felix guesses it’s good for him to walk around, “I’ll see you?”

“Yeah,” Felix agrees, opening the door, “Just...” he gestures at Sylvain - the rumpled state of his outfit, his overall tired demeanour, “Clean yourself up, Sylvain. You can’t just sit out the whole moon.”

“I will,” Sylvain says, and it sounds determined, like he intends to do it, no empty words, “I’m... I feel a lot better,” he says, and Felix believes him. He looks much different from when he first opened the door, “I’ll be back in action tomorrow, promise.”

Felix’s lip curls in a smile. Sylvain didn’t need to promise, but the sound of it is an assurance that what he said is going to happen.

Sylvain never breaks a promise.

“Alright.”


	5. Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert interrogates Sylvain. It's not a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up: Sylvain sorta kinda panics halfway through questioning. it's not a full on panic attack, and I don't really describe everything in intense detail, but if that's something that unsettles you, I thought I should mention.

**Great Tree Moon  
** **1183  
** **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Hubert von Vestra makes Sylvain stew in anticipation for a whole day and a half, after his supposed arrival at Garreg Mach. Sylvain waits and goes over his plans for what to say in anticipation of what he’ll be asked, pacing his tiny room for hours, his thoughts running in circles unable to focus on anything, not even volume 6 of _The Essentials of Black Magic_ , which is as far as he’s gotten through in the collection so far.

The reading is all theoretical but if he applies himself, he thinks he could probably cast a fireball at this point with how intently he’s been studying the books in an attempt to stave off the boredom.

Not that he’d try in this cramped room but once he’s out, he’s tempted to give it a shot when he finally gets within distance of von Vestra, for making him wait.

Von Aegir doesn’t even visit, so Sylvain is reduced to asking the guards when he’ll be spoken to whenever they drop off his daily intake of meals and water.

They refuse to talk to him at all, so that helps nothing.

Sylvain cycles through anger, hopelessness, anxiety that he’s been forgotten, and betrayal as he waits and the toll of it makes it hard to sleep and hard to focus. He oscillates between excruciating boredom and jittery anticipation, energized and exhausted simultaneously. Time stretches to eternity, and blinks by all at once.

When von Aegir finally shows up with two imperial soldiers in tow and a handful of shackles and chains, and informs him they’re moving him to another room for a proper questioning, Sylvain is beyond irritable, angry, and greatly fatigued.

The worst thing about it is he _knows_ von Vestra planned it this way and his shitty mood will play right into that sneaky bastard’s hands. Sylvain may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid.

Von Aegir at least has the decency to look chagrined, as Sylvain glares at him while they fasten the shackles on his arms. “I told Hubert we should do it sooner,” he mutters, fussing needlessly with the key, “but he insisted on being brought up to speed in great detail and... anyway.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sylvain grunts, curtly, dropping him arms when they’re locked into place, the chains rattling, “Where are we going?”

Von Aegir leads him from his furnished underground prison up two flights of stairs. The ascent upwards perks Sylvain up - he’s been underground for so many days the prospect of being in a room above ground, with _windows_ maybe, brings a leap of excitement in his chest.

The air feels lighter, even, when the leave the stairwell to walk down an empty hallway. For a moment, he almost believes it might happen.

Von Aegir opens a door into a room, still in the depths of the main building, and Sylvain’s mood plummets.

Of course von Vestra would only meet him in a room that’s somehow even worse than the room he’s been kept in thus far.

It’s a tiny office: four walls, one bookshelf, one desk, two chairs, two lamps giving off enough light to see, and no other furnishings.

No windows, of course.

Von Vestra probably bursts into flames upon direct exposure to the sun.

Sylvain could weep. He doesn’t, of course; he refuses to give von Vestra the satisfaction.

“Gautier,” the shadowy retainer to the Emperor of Adrestia greets flatly from where he stands when Sylvain’s walked boldly around the desk and shoved into the chair on the far side.

“Von Vestra,” Sylvain growls back, spreading his legs and slouching in his seat, knocking his shackles against the seat of the chair between his knees.

They’ve put him on the side of the desk further away from the door. If it’s meant to make him feel caged in, it’s working.

“I’d ask how you are,” the dark bishop says, nodding at von Aegir when he closes the door, “but I don’t ask pointless questions.”

Sylvain grins at him, all teeth, “And I’d ask how you are but I couldn’t care less.”

Von Aegir gives an awkward clap of his hands, “Wonderful start,” he says, visibly uncomfortable, “I must say.”

Von Vestra doesn’t so much as look at him, “You may go, Ferdinand.”

Sylvain sits up suddenly, the rattle of his chains sounding out in the space, “No, nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, gesturing with both hands at Von Aegir by the door, “I want von Aegir here for this.”

“You don’t get to call the shots to your own interrogation, Gautier,” von Vestra sneers, his yellow-eyed gaze narrowed right at him, “You vastly overestimate the leverage you have,” he glances at von Aegir, “Ferdinand,” he orders.

“Yeah well, maybe I want at least the barest assurance you won’t just kill me as soon as there’s no witnesses,” Sylvain snaps, rattling his chains, “He stays.”

Von Vestra leans forward, over the desk, “Are you scared, Gautier?” he asks mockingly, “Perhaps you have something to hide, is this session going to reveal you have nothing to offer after all?"

Sylvain swallows.

“Or perhaps you have knowledge of something that you know if I find out, will seal your death?” he continues, menacingly, as he straightens to his full height, “All the more reason for Ferdinand to take his leave.”

Sylvain slumps down in his chair, he desperately wants to cross his arms but the shackles don’t make it possible, the chains don’t have that kind of reach, “I’m not talking unless von Aegir is doing the questioning,” he declares, petulant.

Von Vestra frowns, the first furrow of irritation appearing between his brows, “Your protests are not doing anything sway my favour, Gautier, in case you were thinking it might.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sylvain shrugs, looking away at the wall, “It doesn’t matter what I say, I know you’ll just decide I should be killed anyway. I’m not gonna waste time sucking up to you. I want von Aegir here. In the room.”

There’s a brief beat of silence as von Vestra stares Sylvain down, and Sylvain stares determinedly at the wall.

“...Perhaps I should stay,” von Aegir finally speaks up, speaking mildly.

Both Sylvain and von Vestra look at him, but von Aegir has eyes only for the other imperial. Sylvain fumes as the two of them have a conversation conveyed entirely with micro-expressions - narrowed eyes and shifting brows, downturned lips and a pointed shake of von Vestra’s head.

“Oh, very well,” von Aegir huffs, rolling his eyes, “I’ll wait outside.”

“Ferdinand,” Sylvain beseeches, reaching for him with both his hands, “No, please, don’t--”

The door shuts quietly behind him.

It feels like the thump of a scepter at the end of declaration. A death sentence, if Sylvain wants to be dramatic.

He wants to be very dramatic.

“....Well, great,” he mutters as von Vestra takes a seat, finally, across from him.

“So,” he says, assessing, with a smirk, “What brings the illustrious heir of House Gautier to Garreg Mach?”

“I dunno,” Sylvain shrugs, knocking his shackles against his chair again, “What do you think?”

Von Vestra stares blankly at him for a moment, down the length of his nose, before he seems to sigh without taking the breath to do it, gaze darting to the side, “I know you don’t like me,” he states, “I assure you the feeling is mutual, but a word of advice:” he meets Sylvain’s gaze with his own, pinning him into his seat, “The faster you cooperate, the faster we can get this over with.”

Sylvain sneers. He probably doesn’t nail the look as well as von Vestra, but the intent is there, “I notice you didn’t say my cooperation would help my case.”

“No, I didn’t,” von Vestra confirms, crossing his arms, “Because that depends on your words. And right now, your words aren’t worth much.”

“...Well they’re all I’ve got,” Sylvain says with a sweep of his right hand, his left dragged along for the ride, “So you can at least give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“I think not,” von Vestra denies him easily, “You’re the heir to, perhaps, the third most powerful house of the Kingdom, wandering up to an imperial stronghold without warning. No missive, no outreach, and nothing to offer; towing along a relic with the potential to wipe out at least two battalions in one fell sweep. What possible good intentions could you have, coming here?”

Sylvain groans, the burn of frustration rising, heating his blood. He’s sick of being told how significant he is and how the simple act of walking up to Garreg Mach is actually very complicated because he’s the one who happened to do it. He’s not that important and walking up to the monastery didn’t seem that big a deal when he did it. “I didn’t come with any intentions to attack Garreg Mach, or hurt anyone here,” he declares, “I swear.”

Von Vestra doesn’t even blink, “I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, so at least tell me why?” Sylvain asks, leaning forward to glare at him, “What can I tell you, Hubert, that would make you believe me? What on earth did I do wrong, besides hoping I’d be treated decently if I approached peacefully?”

Von Vestra narrows his eyes, “You passed a concealed Hero’s Relic to a crestless man, knowing full well the potential chaos you could have wrought here if Ferdinand hadn’t arrived in time to take it from the wrong hands,” he accuses.

Sylvain frowns, gaze darting to the side as he tries to recall what exactly he did when he arrived at the monastery. It’s been a long blur of days, and the details of his arrival are beginning to get fuzzy. He hadn’t thought he’d done anything wrong, he was trying not to be shot full of arrows, and he’d...

Handed his weapon over without complaint.

To the gatekeeper.

“Oh...” he says, dumbly, “Sorry. I forgot."

“Don’t play dumb, Gautier,” von Vestra snaps, “You and I both know you’re the last man in Fódlan to forget what happens when a Hero’s Relic ends up in unqualified hands.”

Sylvain bites back a scathing retort. It’s a low dig for von Vestra to make, and he definitely knows it. Sylvain’s pissed, but he has to keep his cool. Losing his head means von Vestra wins, “Okay, so I wasn’t thinking,” he concedes, through his teeth, “Cut me some slack, von Vestra, maybe I was nervous about approaching an imperial stronghold all by my lonesome. It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t happen again,” von Vestra says, lowly, “You’ll be dead before you’re ever in a position to try that again.”

“You know, I think you’re being just being mean because I’m from the Kingdom,” Sylvain accuses, shifting in his seat and shaking his head, “Do you treat other people who join you from the Kingdom this way? Didn’t Ferdinand tell you why I’m here?”

“Oh, he did,” von Vestra growls, “What you claimed at the gates and what he thinks after listening to your trifling nonsense for seven days. If you expect me to believe you at your word, you’re a great deal more foolish than I expected.”

Sylvain huffs, tugging at his chains when he tries and fails to cross his arms and instead drops his hands back in his lap instead, turning away, “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with you,” he mutters, “Isn’t Ferdinand in charge here?” he asks, “Isn’t his assessment enough?”

Von Vestra sneers back, “Either you overestimate the capacity two opposing sides of war can trust any agent from the other side or greatly underestimate your own importance as a Kingdom lord.”

Sylvain laughs derisively, “Oh, trust me,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m not important.”

“If you weren’t important,” von Vestra says, articulately, like Sylvain is being particularly dim, “the King himself wouldn’t have asked you to spend your winters in Fhirdiad to advise him, every year since the war began.”

Sylvain winces internally. If von Vestra knows Sylvain makes trips to Fhirdiad because Dimitri asked for him, his spy network must be better than they think it is. He feels something heavy in his gut, at the thought.

Sylvain was never supposed to spend much time in Fhirdiad. His father, as Margrave, fulfilled all the obligations of House Gautier to provide wartime advice and guidance to the King at the roundtable. He has much more experience at the role, with his past success in the Sreng campaign of 1168 - when Faerghus annexed a chunk of the northern territory. Sylvain’s only role was supposed to be holding the north to make sure Sreng wouldn’t complicate the war effort by trying to take back their land.

But Dimitri had asked for Sylvain’s presence because he wanted the support. Because being King was a difficult task and a lonely one, despite the constant presence of his lords, his knights, and his church allies. Sylvain has always been one to support his friends - he couldn’t look His Majesty in the eye and say no - not that he’d want to, anyway. Being in Fhirdiad was a much more appealing option than spending all year languishing in Gautier.

Sylvain was supposed to be there for him.

Instead, he’s here in the middle of what might be a bad gamble, having abandoned his Kingdom, and now he’s apparently learning the Empire has ears even in the heart of Fhirdiad.

There’s nothing he can do with that knowledge now. It’s not like Sylvain’s in any position to warn Fhirdiad. Not like they’d listen to him anyway if he even managed to somehow communicate, being that he abandoned Faerghus to be here and all.

“I grew up with His Majesty,” Sylvain says, trying to sound casual. He’s not sure it’s working, “I know the concept of friends is beyond you, but we are-- were friends. Friends spend time together,” he shrugs, huffing a fake laugh, shaking his head, “It doesn’t mean I’m a major player of anything. I didn’t give him any useful strategic advice, and I’m not a great fighter. I’m not that important.”

“You were at Arianrhod when our first seige stalled,” von Vestra says, as if that’s everyday knowledge. Sylvain’s tempted to laugh at him for calling their failed seige ‘stalled’ instead of ‘failed’. Because that’s what it was - a failure. “If you were so unimportant, the Kingdom would have been perfectly happy to keep you in Gautier fighting Sreng for the the duration of the war. And yet, there you were.”

Sylvain shrugs, dismissive, “Who wasn’t at Arianrhod?” he muses, “His Majesty went to beat you guys back personally, it was kind of a big deal. You were there,” he nods, “I was there. Heard Caspar was there, too,” he leans forward, “How is that guy anyway?”

Dimitri had taken his best knights, and Sylvain, with him to repel the first siege at Arianrhod. Sylvain’s half convinced the sheer volume of His Majesty’s rage gave him the strength and the will to completely rout a tenth of the imperial army besieging the fortress all by himself before his forces pushed the Empire into retreat, allowing the Kingdom to fortify the Silver Maiden against future assault.

Last Sylvain had heard, von Bergliez’s second son had been caught up in that tempest.

“We’re not talking about Caspar,” von Vestra says through his teeth.

Touched a nerve then.

Caspar von Bergliez was a hardy little guy, if Sylvain remembers correctly. He’s pretty sure he survived.

“No, right,” he agrees, relaxing in his seat, “We’re talking about me.”

“Margrave Gautier is beside himself over your disappearance,” von Vestra says, changing tack.

“Oh, apoplectic with rage is more like it, probably,” Sylvain mutters. If word has reached his old man, he must be absolutely furious.

He can’t help the burst of savage glee at the thought, especially since the old man can’t do anything about it.

“So tell me what you did,” von Vestra plies, “And why you did it, to make such a grand detour so far south from your destination. Maybe that might convince me you’re worth the effort to keep alive.”

“I’m sure you know already,” Sylvain responds, disinterestedly, raising his hands to look at his nails. They’re getting long, and he’s chipped one already, “Seeing as you know everything about me from the last two years.”

“If I hear it from you,” von Vestra points out, “Maybe it will convince me to at least listen to the garbage that comes out of your mouth. I could just leave you here to rot.”

Sylvain frowns, “You would, wouldn’t you,” he murmurs.

He’d rather not have to suffer that, and he knows all too well von Vestra is willing to do it. He’s been pushing back, hard, for a while, but he doesn’t want to be stuck here. Not really. This is the only way to get out.

Sylvain sighs. He came here for a reason, and he knew that by doing it, he was closing a door behind him he’d never be able to walk through again. Probably. He doesn’t have many options.

He hates von Vestra - two years at war against the Empire, being privy to knowledge about his crafty plots and the destruction on several fronts wrought by his forces have not made him a sympathetic figure to Sylvain. Not to mention how close he is to the Emperor now, how close he was to Edelgard back at the academy, and how Sylvain knows, for sure, that Hubert knew everything that was going on during that disastrous academy year with the active role he played in everything bad that happened. Not to mention, of course, his pivotal role in the ambush in the Holy Tomb, where he warped the entirety of the Black Eagle class away, spiriting all of them behind Empire lines, out of reach.

Hate may not be a strong enough word, to describe his feelings regarding the other man.

Dealing with him takes a lot of thought, and too much energy. Sylvain is angry, frustrated, and all too willing to be petty. But he’s also so, so tired.

He’s been tired for a very long time.

“Fine,” he grumbles, upset not only at von Vestra but because he knows that eventually he will have to cooperate and give him what he wants, and he doesn’t have the energy to keep turning this interrogation into a snide back and forth, “But if I tell you, you have to let me see Felix,” he says, locking gazes with the other man, “I don’t care if you don’t let me out of here after we talk, but I...” he takes a fortifying breath, “I want to see him.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” von Vestra says firmly. The burn of frustration has bled from his voice though, so Sylvain thinks he’s considering it.

“Then don’t call it a demand,” Sylvain responds, “It’s a request.”

Von Vestra taps his fingers on the desk, a one-two-three-four of contemplation, “I will not force Fraldarius to come see you,” he says clearly, “For all we know, he doesn’t want to see you at all.”

“That’s not true,” Sylvain retorts immediately, “You don’t know Felix.”

The dark bishop’s lip curls, “Well he’s been working with one of the two of us in this room for the last two years,” he points out, “and we all know it wasn’t you.”

Sylvain tries not to let that hurt him.

It’s a good effort, but it still strikes true and hits him right in his uncertain little heart.

“War changes people, Gautier,” von Vestra continues, digging the knife in deep, where Sylvain’s fears about meeting Felix have been sitting quietly since he made it to Garreg Mach and realized that maybe seeing him would be possible, “You shouldn’t be so eager to live in the past.”

“It’s not about living in the past,” Sylvain says firmly, shaking his head. “I _know_ Felix,” he insists, “I just... I have to see him.”

He has to. Whether or not Felix has changed and doesn’t... doesn’t care about him anymore... that’s a problem for after he lays eyes on him.

“...Then talk,” von Vestra says, “And maybe we’ll look into the possibility.”

That’s as good a promise as any, as far as von Vestra goes.

Sylvain doesn’t trust him, but he supposes he needs to have a little bit of faith.

A tiny bit.

“Why did you approach Garreg Mach?” von Vestra asks, direct.

Sylvain looks him in the eye, “To join the imperial army.”

Von Vestra glances away, dismissing his answer, “Try again.”

Sylvain grits his teeth, “If you’re not going to believe me what’s the point of asking me?”

“My job isn’t to ask you questions and hope what you’re saying is the truth,” von Vestra drawls, voice rising, “It’s to convince you to want to tell me the truth so when I ask questions, I have no reason to doubt you. I thought reminding you that your life is in my hands was good enough to make you speak with any form of honesty, but I’m beginning to think that maybe you’re just not interested in surviving the war.”

“Look,” Sylvain says, fighting his temper down to a simmer, “I came to Garreg Mach to join the imperial army. And if you want me to be honest, yeah, maybe...” he takes a breath, and continues in a rush, “Maybe I came because I hoped I could see Felix, too.”

“So you came for Fraldarius,” von Vestra concludes, for once sounding appeased by Sylvain’s answer.

Sylvain rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “If that’s what makes you believe me, yeah, sure,” he agrees, “I came to see Felix.”

“Why Fraldarius specifically?”

“Because we’re friends, von Vestra,” Sylvain huffs, how is this so difficult a concept for this man? “I wanted to see my friend.”

“He betrayed your Kingdom,” von Vestra states, matter of fact.

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Sylvain responds, bitterly. The wound of the betrayal isn’t raw anymore, scarred over with distance, time, worry, but it’s still there.

“And yet you still consider him a friend,” he muses.

Sylvain nods, “I do,” he says firmly. No room to argue. Wholeheartedly, he does. Felix is still his friend.

Von Vestra doesn’t scoff, but it’s a near thing, “I find it hard to believe.”

“Well, you obviously don’t have many close friends,” Sylvain says snidely back.

“How do I know this isn’t a ploy by you to kill him?” the dark bishop asks, getting to the crux of the matter.

“I’m not here to kill Felix,” Sylvain states - declares - as firmly as he can.

“This certainly would be one of the worst plans I’ve seen to try it. He’s a high priority target, we know. For a long while, his own father did his utmost to see him dead.”

Sylvain locks gazes with the other man and doesn’t blink, “I would never hurt Felix.”

Von Vestra tilts his head, curious, “You have every reason to.”

Sylvain shakes his head, “And I still won’t do it,” he says, decision set in stone, “I didn’t come here to hurt Felix. If His Majesty wanted Felix dead, I wouldn’t have volunteered to try it. I’m not here for that.”

Von Vestra simply stares at him for several long seconds, assessing him in the silence, mulling over his words, “...Very well,” he says, finally, when he’s done.

“So you believe me?” Sylvain dares to ask.

“I’m taking your words into consideration, Gautier,” he responds, shifting in his seat, “Don’t push it. Tell me what happened on your journey from Fhirdiad to Gautier.”

The sudden change in topic throws Sylvain for a loop. For a brief moment, he’s convinced he hallucinated the question before the words sink in and turn his blood to ice, stealing the breath from his lungs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, immediately.

Von Vestra gives him a disappointed look, “You can’t play dumb with me, Gautier. Stop trying.”

Sylvain looks away. Why is von Vestra asking about that? It’s not relevant. How does he even know something happened? How far does his spy network stretch? “I don’t see the point of answering a question you apparently already know the answer to.”

“You should find the point quickly before I lose my patience.”

Sylvain stares blankly at the surface of the desk.

There are a wealth of things Sylvain regrets - his childhood, his relationship with his brother, parts of his promiscuous past. His last journey from Fhirdiad to Gautier, ill fated, under the supervision of an escort provided by his father... is definitely one of them. There’s the recency of the event pushing it to the forefront, but the weight of what happened is definitely heavy,

First, it’s shocking von Vestra is asking about it. Second, it’s absolutely none of von Vestra’s business, what happened. That’s between him and the dead.

If he’s going to say anything, von Vestra is the absolute last person he wants to talk about it with.

He barely even remembers what happened.

Sylvain licks his lips.

The thing is, von Vestra isn’t going to let it go. As far as this conversation has shown, once von Vestra sinks his teeth in something, he holds fast and shakes until Sylvain coughs up something he’ll be satisfied with. He can’t talk out of this one because von Vestra doesn’t get flustered, and he doesn’t care about social convention and niceties and will cycle back to the topic again and again and again until Sylvain cracks or he gets an answer.

“Well,” he decides, after several long moments thinking of what to say, “At least tell me what you already know, so I can fill in the gaps,” he chances a glance at von Vestra’s face, then looks away when he finds the returning look too direct, “I don’t really want to get into it.”

“Very well,” von Vestra agrees for once, and deigns to recite what he knows, after all, “We know you were meant to return to Gautier to defend your northern border against Sreng. We also know you had an escort to accompany you to Gautier. You, evidently, never made it to Gautier. Something happened to your escort before you wound up here. What happened?”

Sylvain starts with the obvious, “...They were attacked.”

The look von Vestra gives him is dry and unamused, “Obviously,” he drawls, “By who?”

“Does it matter?” Sylvain asks with an awkward shrug.

“You are testing my patience,” von Vestra says, in a rough undertone.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Sylvain complains, stifling a hysterical laugh, his heart pumping, his blood rushing in his ears, “They were attacked. They died, I didn’t. Here I am. What more do you want?”

“I want to know who attacked them.”

“Why do you care?" Sylvain snaps, anger, frustration, pushing through the anxiety, “They’re Gautier knights!”

Why do the deaths of a few Gautier knights matter so much to him? Shouldn’t the empire be pleased, that a bunch of Kingdom knights are dead? Less for them to deal with!

Hubert loses his patience, bringing his hand down firmly on the desk, leaning forward menacingly, “The more you protest the more I’m convinced it’s pertinent information you are concealing,” he snarls, “Are you protecting someone? Perhaps a third party who helped you plot your escape?”

Sylvain’s gaze darts aside. He hadn’t even considered that as something von Vestra might be looking at as a possibility. He’s not right, but the truth is worse. He swallows, but his throat feels dry.

“Protest as much as you want regarding your importance in this war,” the dark bishop continues, his tone low, his speech clear - syllables crisp, accusing - “but as an heir to a noble house, and one of the very few people on this land capable of wielding a Heroes’ Relic, your movements are significant, and if other parties are aiding you that means they can impact the war. The last moves you made to come here are of great interest, especially since you’re expressing a desire to cross battle lines. Depending on who aided and abetted your ill-planned plot to leave the Kingdom, your decision to come here could be genuine, or, most likely, it could be a trap waiting to hurt the empire, and I can’t let that happen. So tell me, Gautier, who killed your escort and allowed you to make it to Garreg Mach unscathed?”

Sylvain’s hands clench into fists, the shackles weren’t really bothering him before, but now they’re restrictive. He can feel the drip of cold sweat down the back of his neck. He feels floaty, but not in a good way, in a way that makes him kind of faint, actually.

“Very well,” Hubert says, distantly, dismissive suddenly, turning away, closing off, “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just inform Lady Edelgard that you’re a waste of time. Even if you’re concealing information, you can’t pose a risk if you’re dead,” he moves to stand.

A burst of panic. Von Vestra’s going to leave him here and after this they’ll lock him back up in his shitty room and that’s it, the end of Sylvain Jose Gautier, dead under Garreg Mach: a forgotten footnote of the war. He hasn’t even gotten the chance to see Felix yet and he can’t make this whole ordeal have been for nothing. He _can’t._ There’s so much he needs to do before he can let himself die.

“It was me,” Sylvain chokes.

Von Vestra stops. There’s a moment where the two of them are frozen - von Vestra staring him down, Sylvain sitting on the edge of his seat staring on the table, hunched over, hands clenched in his lap - a tableau of the interrogator having cracked the guilty party.

Sylvain takes a breath, “I did it,” he says, blankly, “I... I killed them. It was just... me. Nobody helped me.”

Von Vestra settles back in his seat, studying Sylvain’s guilty form carefully. Sylvain doesn’t meet his gaze, staring down at the grain of the wood of the desk, his thoughts a rush of nothing, fighting back the panic, trying to slow his quickening breaths, counting nonsense numbers in his head.

“So it _was_ you.”

Sylvain sees red. He knew; von Vestra _fucking knew the whole time_ and he still _pushed_ until Sylvain cracked and- Sylvain slams his chained fists on the desk and shouts, “Fuck you, von Vestra--”

“Why did you do it?” the other man interrupts. He didn’t even flinch.

“I’m not telling you that,” Sylvain shouts, turning away sharply, shaking in his seat. He’s lost his grip on his temper, his blood is heated, his thoughts going from nothing to everything and back again: a clashing mess of jumbled words and feelings in his head. His heart’s pumping so fast it’s throwing off the rhythm of his breaths. He clenches his teeth and tries to focus on counting, what for he doesn’t even know anymore, but it’s the only thing keeping him from blacking out.

Von Vestra doesn’t say anything for a long time. Sylvain cups his hands over his mouth, holding up his head, and takes the opportunity to just breathe: deep, in and out, counting in his head until the numbers mean something again. His heartbeat pounds, but slows, shaking his chest from the inside out as it settles into a hard, heavy beat. His breaths settle, the rush of his blood falling back into background silence, and the anxious jumble of his thoughts fall back into some form of order, organized enough for him to shove them aside and focus on the mechanics of his body, keeping him upright, conscious, present, alive.

“Very well,” the dark bishop decides, finally, “I suppose we can return to that on a later day.”

Sylvain grits his teeth and takes a deep shuddering breath before letting it out, centering himself as he tries to take comfort in the fact von Vestra won’t probe him any further on why what happened, happened.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s scared of examining the reasons himself.

“So you killed your escort,” Hubert summarizes, “and after, you came to Garreg Mach.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain mutters, he feels tired, suddenly. Even as they’re moving on, he knows there’s so much more von Vestra wants to cover.

“Strange decision,” von Vestra comments, “To run here.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to go back to Fhirdiad,” Sylvain points out with a self-deprecating shrug, “What am I going to do, just go back and say ‘whoops’? Nah.”

“The Alliance is certainly reachable,” von Vestra points out, “A much shorter journey than to travel the length of Faerghus to make it here, considering what you did, and they’d be very eager to take on a runaway noble heir with a relic.”

Sylvain closes his eyes, “There’s nothing for me there.” He hadn’t even thought of it.

‘ _One track mind, Gautier,_ ’ he thinks.

Maybe he really is stupid.

“After I did it...” Sylvain professes, “I thought, well I’m going to die anyway,” he smiles, weakly, “At the very least, I want to see my best friend before I do.”

“Fraldarius,” von Vestra affirms.

An ache in his chest, long, enduring, ever present since the night Felix sought him out for reassurance that one final day before the Eagles’ fateful mission in the Holy Tomb. The fleeting, intent gaze of orange-brown eyes. A warmth shared in a bed too small for two close friends. A promise renewed with a shake of two pinky fingers.

“Yeah,” Sylvain breathes.

Von Vestra huffs, quietly, “What a simple reason for such a journey.”

Sylvain shakes his head, “Judge me all you want,” he says tiredly, “I don’t care.”

“Hm.”

Von Vestra doesn’t ask anything for a while, staring Sylvain down intently, tapping his finger on the table. Sylvain refuses to look at him, tipping his head back against the back of his uncomfortable chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He feels wrung out. Physically. Emotionally. The culmination of days of anticipation, bad sleep, no sunlight. He thought he knew what he’d expect to be asked, and instead Hubert von Vestra has dragged him on a relentless ride of questioning, disbelieving him and goading him in turn, then asking questions Sylvain never expected to be asked, and using his frustrations to make him confront matters he didn’t want to dwell on.

He’s not even physically torturing him. Not that Sylvain wants him to, but maybe if he had, this bone weariness would feel somehow more worth it.

“Fraldarius believes you could harbour sympathies for the empire’s goals,” von Vestra says, suddenly, pulling Sylvain out from the fog of his mind.

Sylvain laughs in disbelief, “Oh you’re done prodding me so now you’re just going to lie to me to make me talk?” he asks, tipping his head forward again to stare von Vestra in the eye.

Von Vestra meets his gaze evenly, “Specifically,” he continues, “He said you harboured criticisms of the importance of crests in the world.”

Sylvain straightens in his seat, but he doesn’t respond.

Crests. Always about crests, in the end, isn’t it; the order of the world that’s made his life a misery. It seems everything shitty in his life boils down to this awful intangible thing alive in his blood: the blessing of his bloodline.

Von Vestra’s right, because he does have criticisms; so many of them. Parts of Emperor Edelgard’s manifesto had been appealing, he’s not going to lie to himself, but the cost she forced the world to pay to pursue it was never going to be worth it. So many dead at the hands of her armies, deaths compounding as her opponents retaliated against attack... Sure, a world without crests would be nice, but crests provided order, and made the Kingdom what it was. If this is the cost of the vision, he’d been more than willing to oppose it - his personal pains weren’t worth the suffering of so many, especially while knowing his friends would be part of the collateral. Sylvain’s a selfish man, but he’s not that selfish.

Then again, seeing what he’s done, maybe that’s no longer true.

It’s not like it was a huge secret, back at the academy, his misgivings about crests. It wasn’t like he lived like he respected the one he had. The then imperial princess certainly had an idea, just watching him for the one month he trialed with the Eagles and in the aftermath of Miklan’s ill-fated theft. She’d approached him, after all. If she knew, it’s basically a guarantee her ever present shadow would have known as well.

Or... did Felix really mention that to von Vestra? Sylvain doesn’t know what to think about that if it’s true. It rankles, slightly, that Felix would share information about what Sylvain might want, and his personal thoughts on crests - something deeply ingrained in him, and yet also something he tries not to think much about - with von Vestra, of all people. On the other hand, it’s an open window provided to give Sylvain room to commiserate with von Vestra on something, to appeal to one thing they might share, to give Sylvain a fighting chance to convince him they can work together. Maybe Felix said it to appeal for him.

If Felix did tell von Vestra, he hopes it was because of that.

“Well?” von Vestra asks, prompting him when he fails to answer quickly enough.

Sylvain shrugs, “Well what,” he says, crossly.

“Let’s talk then, about crests,” von Vestra says, leaning forward to rest his arms on the desk, “A crest is why you had a position of power in the Kingdom. A crest made you heir of your house, and a crest is why Gautier’s influence rivals even that of the King’s right hand,” he sneers, mocking, “By all means, you should be one of the last to disparage the system that exists because by having one, you’ve been afforded a set life of great privilege.”

A bitterness rises. “Yeah, a set life,” Sylvain mutters, glaring at the desk.

 _Privilege_ , von Vestra says, as if there isn’t a cost in exchange for all of it.

“This crest has never done anything good for me,” Sylvain says, firmly, a sour feeling of deep ingrained rancor - developed and pressed into his bones over a childhood, feeding into his developing adulthood - raising its head again.

“I beg to differ,” von Vestra says, dismissively.

Sylvain snaps.

“Well, you don’t know me, or my family, or my house,” he snarls, and as soon as the words are spit up, they keep coming, overflowing from his mouth, a lifetime of frustration shoving them forth, the infuriation over the last few days fueling them, unstoppable in the face of von Vestra’s indifference, “This crest, in my blood, has defined my entire _life_ ,” he raises his arms, gestures at himself with both his chained hands, “Because of this crest, my brother _hated_ me. Until the day my father disowned him, he made my life an absolute _hell_ , and even after that, his choices kept coming back to haunt me.”

Sylvain scoffs, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees, gesturing sharply with both his hands, “In exchange for power in the Kingdom, House Gautier needs a living crest, because otherwise, Sreng attacks us, attacks Fódlan, and they’d win if we weren’t there. Without a crest, we’re _nothing_ , and _I’m_ supposed to be that crest.

“So yeah,” he snaps, glaring at the other man, “Maybe this crest has given me a life of privilege, but it’s also made sure it’s the only life I’ll _ever_ have,” he shakes his head, “I don’t get to make choices because of this crest. I don’t get to decide what I want to do with my life. I don’t get to decide who I want to spend my life with. I don’t even get to choose how many kids I want to have, or if I want kids at all.”

He takes a breath, feeling breathless. The slew of words keep pouring out and he’s starting to find he’s okay if they do. It’s an awful history he’s airing to the last man he wants to hear it, but it’s good, it’s _so_ good to finally use his voice to get so many years of bitterness out.

“And you know what’s the worst thing about this crest, von Vestra?” he asks, tilting his head, hissing the truth out with all the air left in his chest, “It’s _useless_ unless we’re at war. The only thing it’s good at is making me a better killer. And in a world where crests decide who gets power, I don’t _get to choose_ to stop killing. Because we could, you know,” he shakes his head, breathing out the last final awful truth of his family legacy, “We _could_ stop fighting Sreng, we could reach out for once in our miserable lives, and ask them for terms for how we can both stop, but we won’t and we never will, and I think you know _exactly_ why that is.”

Von Vestra just watches him in the aftermath, sitting upright, alert, both arms back on the table, one hand tapping softly on the desk. Sylvain stares back, evenly, breathing deeply, feeling winded, at the end of it.

He should feel bad, for airing it all out to the enemy: the shame of Gautier, out in the open, to the man closest to the Emperor in direct opposition to his King. He doesn’t, because he doesn’t care. He hasn’t cared about Gautier for so long. Telling von Vestra is both of great consequence and not of any consequence at all because the northernmost border of Fódlan isn’t of any imperial concern. Von Vestra probably doesn’t even _care_.

In the face of imperial assault, all out war across the land, the importance of holding the northern line hasn’t felt in any way important for so long. Every single time Sylvain’s father lectured him and ordered him to return to that empty soulless border while the rest of his friends, his allies, his people fought off the empire, the words only rang hollower each time he obeyed and went back.

Because what was the _point_? If menacing Sreng was all he was good for, even in the face of war against the immediate threat of the biggest military power in the land, then he might as well not be there at all.

Sylvain takes a shuddering breath, and buries his face in his hands.

“...Fraldarius knows you well,” von Vestra says, finally, quietly in the silence.

“That’s what you get out of this?” Sylvain asks, with a tired laugh, muffled in his palms, “You really are a piece of work, von Vestra.”

Von Vestra only hums, a quiet sound, barely heard. Sylvain takes a breath and sits up, dropping his arms again, leaning back in his uncomfortable chair and tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling.

“You have any more shitty questions for me, or are we done here?” Sylvain asks, flatly “Because I think I’m done talking.”

“I have what I need for now, Gautier,” von Vestra replies, blessedly, to Sylvain’s great relief, “This has been... an enlightening conversation.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Sylvain mutters sarcastically.

“Ferdinand will take you back to your room,” von Vestra says as he stands, “We’ll speak again.”

Not if Sylvain can help it, and absolutely not before Sylvain gets to do what he wants to do. Just once, since he got here, he wants to have one thing go his way, “I want to talk to Felix.”

“So you’ve said,” the dark bishop responds, derisively, as he taps on the closed door, “I heard you the first dozen times you said it.”

Sylvain bares his teeth back, “Just making sure.”

Von Vestra hums, “We’ll see about Fraldarius,” he grants, the barest of concessions, “It will only happen if he wants to.” he reminds as he opens the door.

“Oh good,” von Aegir interjects before Sylvain can bite out another remark, standing at the door as if he’s been waiting with bated breath for it to reopen again, “You haven’t killed each other.”

“Ferdinand,” von Vestra growls.

“I’m simply saying, Hubert,” von Aegir retorts, chiding,

“As if he would have been capable,” von Vestra responds, gaze sliding over to Sylvain’s seated form.

Sylvain grins back, “Oh, you never know, von Vestra,” he says, raising his hands, “I could do a lot of damage with these,” he rattles his chains, “I have the reach.”

His arms are long enough to manage it. Maybe.

Von Vestra rolls his eyes, “Don’t push your luck,” turning to leave.

“Well?” von Aegir says, stopping von Vestra at the door.

“Take him back to his room,” the dark bishop orders, “We’ll discuss after,” he states, and leaves.

Von Aegir huffs, but gestures to Sylvain to get up and follow, “Well, come on then.”

At least this time he foregoes the additional escort. Sylvain imagines making a break for it, just because he can, but it’s a short lived fantasy. He’ll just look stupid.

“How do you think it went?” von Aegir asks quietly, as he guides Sylvain back down to his underground room, a hand at his elbow. Walking side by side, for once, as if they’re equals and not a prisoner and captor. It’s a meaningless gesture, given the chains, but Sylvain can’t help but appreciate it all the same.

Sylvain shrugs, “Oh, I’m sure he’s going to have me killed.”

Von Aegir tuts, “Have a little faith, Sylvain.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, as they finally reach the room. The guard at the door stands at attention on von Aegir’s approach, and he nods back to acknowledge them.

“If he planned for you to die, he would have killed you when you were done talking,” von Aegir points out to Sylvain, opening the door and guiding him in.

The lamps are lit and there’s a plate with a fish sandwich on it. If it weren’t so simple a meal to prepare at Garreg Mach, with the well-maintained fishing pond, Sylvain would be tempted to think von Aegir were trying to apologize him for the last however long he’s been at the mercy of von Vestra by giving him a favoured meal.

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” Sylvain grumbles as von Aegir unlocks his shackles and takes back the chains.

“Get some rest Sylvain,” the other man responds, patting him gently on the shoulder, “We’ll see about Felix.”

Sylvain bypasses the desk with the meal and throws himself on the uncomfortable bed instead. He’s not hungry.

“...Bye,” he says simply, in dismissal, done with dealing with any and everyone.

Von Aegir doesn’t press, nodding once in acknowledgement and leaving the room.

For a long, long moment, Sylvain just lies there, face down, and just lets his mind... drift.

There’s a pit opening up in his chest, pieces of himself falling inside and hollowing him out. So much he regrets saying, so much he failed to say at all. Talking with von Vestra felt like losing at conversation: each response he gave not good enough, and each justification of it the snap of a trap to make him divulge too much of what he never wanted to say, and not enough of what he did.

He walked in with nothing in hand, and somehow came out with even less. Von Vestra got too much out of him, jabbing him right where his conscience is weak, asking questions about things Sylvain’s tried so hard not to think about since they happened.

Prodding him just enough about crests, the constant hated part of himself he’s harboured since he became aware of what it was and why his brother stopped treating him like kin. It’s a catharsis to speak his hatred for his crest out loud, but now that it’s been said, he can’t help but feel guilty for giving that hidden sentiment voice. It’s supposed to be a dirty secret, about himself, about his house, about the Kingdom - and he’s just said it all out to an imperial man.

It’s one thing to say he intends to join the imperial army, at the gates of Garreg Mach, to Ferdinand von Aegir, to Hubert von Vestra. It’s a whole other thing to admit that, yeah, perhaps he did agree with parts of the imperial agenda as a son of Faerghus. In another world, if he believed the cost could be worth it, he very well could have joined the empire and meant it with all of his soul.

Sylvain grabs the floppy pillow he’s been given, shoves his face in it, and yells for as long as he can in a single breath.

When he’s done, he throws it across the room, narrowly missing the sandwich on the desk, and rolls over onto his back, burying his face in his hands with a groan before sliding his palms back to comb through his mess of hair.

 _'It’s worth it_ ', he thinks to himself. It’ll be worth it if he gets to see Felix at the end of it.

It has to be.

He doesn’t know if he believes it.

**~o.O.o~**

**Pegasus Moon  
** **1181**  
 **Winter  
** **Castle Blaiddyd, Fhirdiad**

It’s Ingrid who finds him, lounging in an armchair on the upper level of the castle library, seated sideways on the seat with one leg planted on the flour, the other hanging over the armrest. It’s not a comfortable position, Sylvain would be the first to admit it, but he’s wedged in now. The fire burning in the grate of the fireplace nearby is just a pleasant level of warm, and he’s too engrossed in the papers in his hand to want to move.

“Where have you been?” Ingrid asks, approaching him from the stacks, appearing suddenly from behind a shelf to his quiet reading corner, “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

She’s in her armour still, probably came from running drills. She’s been doing more of that lately, leaving Sylvain too much time to wander the halls of Fhirdiad when he’s not sitting beside his father at roundtable meetings or joining Dimitri for tea or meals or training himself. Her trial to earn her accolade as an official knight of the Kingsguard is soon, and she’s been relentless as ever, training her nervous energy away.

“Hm?” Sylvain asks, looking up from the section he’s been caught on, obsessively reading over and over since he found it, “Oh,” he says dumbly, shaking himself out of his focused reading stupor, “Uh, here, mostly. I’ve been reading. What, is it important?"

Ingrid frowns, taking a seat in the other armchair, “I’m not sure,” she says, “It’s not urgent. His Majesty said he’d find you later, Lady Rhea wanted to talk to him so he had to stop looking for you, but I thought I’d try to find you anyway.”

“Oh,” Sylvain responds, turning back to the papers in his hands, flipping back a page to start over, “Okay.”

“What’s got you so engrossed?” she asks, amused.

“Oh, you know,” Sylvain responds evasively.

“No,” Ingrid says slowly, amused, “I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, distractedly, kicking the leg he has propped up on the arm of his chair, “You have no idea how hard it is to get ahold of one of these things here. I’ve been reading it, and you know, it raises a lot of interesting points.”

“What is it?” she asks with a smile.

Sylvain considers lying.

Decides not to.

“The manifesto,” he says as casually as he’s able.

Ingrid’s smile drops. “...The manifesto.,” she repeats, wary.

“Yeah,” Sylvain responds, “The one that-- hey!”

He sits up straight, yanking his arms away with papers in hand when Ingrid lunges from her seat to grab for them.

“Sylvain!” she yells, as he leaps to his feet, darting away as she braces herself on the reading table between them, her follow-up grab missing him by inches.

“I’m not saying I agree with it!” Sylvain argues, clutching the papers in his hand as he hovers by the fireplace, “I’m just saying there are some ideas worth discussing!”

Ingrid reaches out her hand, palm up, command clear, “Give it to me.”

“Listen,” Sylvain insists, flipping to the page he’s been on for the last hour, maybe, and starts to read out loud, quickly, “’A Crest is not a gift from a goddess, nor a sign that one is of greater worth than another. The people should have the right to govern themselves, without the false church authority determining for them by what happens to appear in the blood--’ Whoa, Ingrid!”

He leaps back again, but he’s a touch slow, and Ingrid swipes the last two pages in the stack from his grip, crunching them in her fist. “Stop reading that garbage!” she yells.

Sylvain tucks the rest of the papers behind him, reaching with his free hand for the pages in Ingrid’s grasp, “It’s short sighted to just destroy them! We should try to understand her motivations!” he darts close to grab, but is warded off before she darts forward again, jabbing at his gut with her fingers in a physical attack, “If we can figure out how the Empire thinks, it makes it easier to strategize against them-- oof!” she lands a hit in his gut with all of her fingers, and when he raises his arms to defend himself from a follow up, she grabs the rest of the manifesto from his hands, “Hey!”

Papers secured, Ingrid doesn’t even hesitate. In one fluid motion, she turns and throws the whole stack into the fireplace as hard as she can.

Sylvain can only watch as the papers ignite more or less instantly, deep enough in the flames that there’s no hope of rescuing even a single page.

He groans. It’d taken him weeks to find that copy, what with every lord in Faerghus having had to burn the copies they had by order of the Church, echoed by the King, after Emperor Edelgard had distributed them to every noble house in the land. He’d had to wander the streets of Fhirdiad, looking for scholars, black market book dealers, archivists who might have had a copy. Turns out, at least in Fhirdiad, the empire had sent them to civil figures among the common folk as well, making a declaration into a tool of propaganda. “Damnit Ingrid.”

Ingrid crosses her arms, shaking her head, disappointed, “I don’t want you reading that... that filth,” she spits, “You don’t need to study her motivations to defeat her. It doesn’t matter why she’s doing it, what matters is what she’s doing, and that we need to stop it. There’s no reason for you to read this nonsense.”

Sylvain sighs, flopping down in the armchair again, waving a hand beseechingly, “If we don’t even try to understand her, how can we reach some kind of accord? Maybe we don’t have to fight her to the death! Maybe we can reach some compromise.”

Maybe they can avoid excess bloodshed, work for some middle ground. Then it doesn’t matter that they have friends on the opposite side, because they can find a solution that means they don’t have to fight each other anymore.

And then maybe the conflict lines can be dropped, and...

“Don’t be naïve, Sylvain,” Ingrid says, harshly, pulling him from his lofty imaginations, “She has no intentions of stopping. It’s our duty to stop her. Knowing what she wants won’t help us win the war.”

Sylvain bites his lip. He knows it’s naïve, but he can hope. It’s bitter, having one of his closest friend here in Fhirdiad tell him he’s wishfully dreaming of something that will never happen.

Edelgard used to be a classmate. She used to be reasonable. There’s no reason she can’t be again.

“Well,” Sylvain grumbles, “Maybe I want to know what the Empire’s whole deal is, what makes them tick.”

Ingrid scoffs, standing over him, “There’s nothing you can gain from reading this... this...rubbish."

“That’s not for you to decide,” Sylvain retorts, looking away from her judgmental gaze.

“What are you trying to do Sylvain?” Ingrid scolds, “What could you possibly gain from reading her propaganda besides humouring her ideals?! There’s no room for you to find sympathies for the empire, Sylvain!” she slams her hands on the reading table between them, dropping her voice from a shout to a loud whisper, “Do you have any _idea_ what you’re courting by reading this here? In the _royal library?_ ”

“Maybe I just want to understand why Felix left!” Sylvain yells back, not bothering to lower his voice - nobody has time to hang out in the library anyway, wartime being what it is -and besides, he doesn’t care. Let them all hear, “Is that so wrong of me, Ingrid?”

Ingrid recoils, her indignant anger falling away suddenly, replaced with a sorrow Sylvain hates seeing.

There’s a bitter silence, afterwards, as the wound they both share opens up wide again in wake of what he’s dared to say out loud. Almost one year since Felix disappeared from the Holy Tomb, presumably to follow Emperor Edelgard in her war against the Church and its allies. Four moons since that was confirmed, when the Fraldarius heir was sighted on the Great Bridge of Myrddin fighting on the empire side under the red imperial banner, as the Empire took control of the bridge. It had been a relentless assault that yielded to the Empire the strategic boon of stymieing Alliance advances by fracturing their inter-territory allegiances, and rendering the formation of a real Kingdom-Alliance entente from a slim chance to a complete impossibility.

If Felix left to fight against the Kingdom - against his home, his family, his friends - there had to be a good reason. Sylvain has been desperate to find out what exactly that was since the day he lost him. Duke Fraldarius may be concerned mostly with where Felix is and where he’ll be next, so the Kingdom can snatch him back. Sylvain just wants to know _why_ , so he can understand Felix again and maybe figure out how to change his mind.

“I just want to know what...” Sylvain swallows, hesitant, “What could make him turn his back on everything he knows to--”

Ingrid interrupts him, “We don’t know if he’s really turned his back--”

“It’s been a whole year, Ingrid,” Sylvain interjects, harshly, “He’s not coming back.”

It’s Ingrid who bites her lip now, hurt, “We don’t know that,” she says, quietly, hopefully, “Lord Rodrigue... Duke Fraldarius said-”

“Duke Fraldarius hasn’t known Felix well for a long time, Ingrid,” Sylvain snaps, crossing his arms and turning away.

“And what,” Ingrid barks back, angry now, indignant in place of the Duke, “Are you claiming _you_ know? That you know Felix better than his own _father_?”

 _'Yes'_ , Sylvain thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. He wouldn’t dare to give it voice, but he knows - he knows it in his _bones -_ that he knows Felix better than his father does, especially in the last few years.

He’s been the one who knows Felix best, since the day Felix sought his company, after they buried whatever they did in place of Glenn’s battered body. When in the blink of an eye, Felix threw aside the soft-hearted boy he used to be and embraced the bitter angry teen he became instead.

He wants to believe he still knows Felix the best now, but he’s not here. He’s not here, and Sylvain doesn’t know why and it’s killing him inside.

“You shouldn’t have burned it, Ingrid,” Sylvain says lowly, “We should have a record of it. Refusing to look at it isn’t going to make people stop believing in it. If we want to win the war, we need to know why it resonates with people so we can try to turn them back to our side.”

Ordering the people not to read the Emperor’s manifesto is one thing. Refusing to even read it in an academic manner to glean any hints to the empire’s way of thinking, anything exploitable in the text, has been something Sylvain has always found to be short-sighted and guileless. But given that Dimitri refused to engage with it, and the Archbishop couldn’t even get through the first page before screeching in rage and tearing the thing to shreds, Sylvain supposes he shouldn’t expect anything from that front.

He thinks he’s seen Seteth read it - the man’s always seemed level headed, with enough of an academic curiosity to at least read it once to know what it is before he condemns it - but given the archbishop’s assistant had never mentioned it, ever, it’s useless conjecture to guess at what he’s seen and taken away from it.

“...I just don’t want to lose anyone else,” Ingrid whispers, quietly.

Sylvain glances back over at her.

She’s hunched in on herself now, one arm crossed over herself, clutching at her other forearm, making herself smaller as she looks down, “We’ve lost so many already to her...” she whispers, fighting back tears, “And her ideals. We lost... we lost Ashe, and Mercedes. We could have lost Annette. And we lost... we lost...” she chokes on her breath.

“Felix,” Sylvain murmurs, quietly, feeling the ache of the wound in his heart flare up anew, “I know.”

“I don’t want to lose anyone else,” she whispers, fighting back the tears already gathering in her eyes.

Sylvain pushes himself up, approaching her slowly, voice soothing. He hates seeing her cry, “I know,” he murmurs, “Ingrid, I know.”

“I’m not sorry for burning it,” Ingrid says firmly, glancing at the fire.

Sylvain holds back his words, standing before her, just one step away.

“But I...” she stammers, “I understand why you would want to... read it.”

He opens his arms for her - an invitation - and waits.

She falls into them easily, and he wraps her in a hug, resting his head atop hers, propping his chin up on top of her head as she holds him tight and pretends she’s not crying.

He holds her, a comforting support, staring at the bookshelves, rocking back and forth absently in the silence.

That’s how Dimitri finds them, later, on one of his brief, infrequent gaps of free time, when he asks them to join him and Dedue for dinner in his private sitting room. Neither of them mention the papers in the fireplace when he asks them what’s wrong.


	6. The Long Awaited Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exactly what the chapter name says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figured maybe i should warn about margrave gautier being around in the flashback at the end of the chapter. also sylvain mildly disassociates at the end there and has a few offhand unhealthy thoughts about death.

**Harpstring Moon  
** **1183  
** **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Sylvain spends the day after his disastrous interview with von Vestra languishing in his uncomfortable prison bed, shifting position every now and then to chase some modicum of comfort, alternating from staring at the ceiling, the wall, the desk, and the back of his eyelids. Even after the guards walk in to deliver his lunch (or is it breakfast? brunch?) and light all his lamps so he’s not lying in the dark, he doesn’t get up.

He just has no energy and is perfectly content to wallow in his misery, absolutely certain that any second, von Vestra is going to walk in to inform him he’ll be killed and then ask him if he has any requests about where he wants his body and his meager possessions to be buried.

He doesn’t even get up off the bed when von Aegir comes in with a pot of tea. At that point he’s committed to spending the day lying horizontal on the bed, and spends the whole visit staring blankly at the ceiling, hands resting on his empty stomach, fingers interlaced: the perfect imitation of a corpse awaiting burial.

Von Aegir doesn’t really appreciate his dramatic irony and after failing to engage him in conversation for at least 10 minutes, huffs and tells him Belle is fine, aside from the fact she’d bitten him earlier that morning, before he finally leaves.

Sylvain enjoys the image of his faithful mare chomping down on von Aegir’s hand for maybe a full minute before he returns to his general thoughts of despair.

Von Aegir leaves the tea behind when he goes. Unfortunately it’s southern fruit blend, so that’s a shame. What a waste of tea.

**~o.O.o~**

The following day, Sylvain makes an effort to be a human person again.

Which is a good thing because right after his first meal of the day (breakfast or lunch, he’s still not sure, after so many days), von Aegir sweeps into the room, two imperial guards at the door.

Sylvain looks up from his book - volume 7, he’s really in advanced theory now - and stares, unsure of what to make of him.

“Your presence is requested for a meeting,” von Aegir says, simply.

Sylvain slaps the book shut and groans.

“It’s not with Hubert, if that makes you feel better,” von Aegir says, at his petulant look.

It does, but Sylvain doesn’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt that it might not somehow be something worse, because Goddess knows von Vestra doesn’t physically need to be present to concoct an awful situation for Sylvain. He’s heard the stories.

“No chains today?” Sylvain notes as he stands, and von Aegir gestures for him to follow.

“We all believed them to be unnecessary, at this point,” von Aegir responds, leading Sylvain away from his room, the two imperial guards falling into formation behind him.

“Even von Vestra?” Sylvain dares to ask.

“Even Hubert,” von Aegir confirms, and leads him to a stairwell - different, he notes, from the one he’d climbed two days prior - as they begin to ascend.

Sylvain frowns as he follows. Who would want to meet him, that von Aegir and von Vestra would allow? Another member of imperial leadership? Sylvain can’t think of any that would want to; it’s not like there’s any pertinent imperial ministers who care about him enough to make the trip to Garreg Mach from Enbarr or the western front. He’s definitely not important enough to spark newfound interest.

There’s always the Emperor herself, since they were classmates once, and assuming she’s taking a personal interest in this. She was known for making spontaneous trips to Garreg Mach on a whim early in the war, after all. Though, she’s stopped doing that, as far as Sylvain is aware. Being Emperor must be an incredibly busy role - Sylvain can guess, having seen Dimitri swamped in work when he himself was officially crowned King - and that’s besides the fact that von Vestra would never have let Sylvain within arms reach of Her Majesty, Emperor of Adrestia, especially without chains.

For a brief moment, he dares to hope that maybe he’s finally getting a meeting with Felix. He pushes that down quick - best not to get ahead of himself - given von Vestra and von Aegir’s concerns he’s here to hurt Felix, they absolutely would not let them meet without at least putting Sylvain in chains. Leaving his arms free would be incredibly irresponsible, and von Aegir doesn’t seem the type to be able to stomach that.

There’s also the possibility that von Aegir lied about not meeting von Vestra. He has a face you want to trust, but it’s not like he’s always truthful. Sylvain’s starting to get the sense, in the last few days, that ultimately, von Aegir answers to von Vestra more often than he does not, and if von Vestra tells him to lie through his teeth, von Aegir might do it. At least, it seems that way regarding matters pertaining to Sylvain. Von Aegir probably doesn’t deal with a lot of matters concerning potential defectors. Traitors and twisting allegiances seems very much a von Vestra thing.

When von Aegir leads him out of the stairwell, after climbing two - or was it three, he wasn’t counting - flights of stairs, there’s a burst of light and Sylvain shuts his eyes with a sound of discomfort.

“Ah, do you need a moment?” von Aegir asks, as Sylvain dares to reopen his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the change in light.

Windows. It’s sunny outside. Von Aegir brought him to a floor with _windows_.

Sylvain hasn’t exactly been deprived of light entirely, having... enough lamps in his room, but even with three, they don’t beat the power of natural light.

“Keep walking,” he responds, eventually, when his eyes adjust well enough to see with only the mild discomfort at the back of his eyes and the sense that maybe he should squint for a bit until it stops bothering him.

From there, von Aegir leads him through a simple hallway with a window at the end of the hall - _windows_ , such a novelty - and into a room at the end.

It’s another office, with a desk and two chairs, two bookshelves this time, and blessedly, two windows, with curtains half drawn, providing a healthy dose of natural light. Sylvain could cry.

There’s no one else in the room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” von Aegir says, gesturing vaguely, and before Sylvain can think to ask who’s coming to see him - still slightly preoccupied with the concept of windows and real actual sunlight - he takes the two imperial guards with him and leaves the room entirely, shutting the door behind him.

Sylvain blinks dumbly at the door, thinks ' _that’s weird_ ' before he immediately heads for the window, yanking the curtain aside to look outside.

The view’s a little disappointing, overlooking one of the less public courtyards spread around the main building, but it’s a glimpse outside nonetheless. He can see the scattered forms of imperial troops, maybe other staff maintaining the stronghold, other _people_ , just walking around going about their daily business at the monastery. There’s sprouting greenery - spring settling into the land.

He’s quite high up, on the second floor, if what he remembers about the number of stairs to reach the second floor from the ground floor and how many floors down he is staying is right. Looking outside, he has a sudden thought that if he wanted, he could probably break one of the windows and make a bid to climb down to escape. He really could. They really gave him a lot of leeway, foregoing the chains.

Not that he really wants to, honestly. There’s nowhere for him to go.

He sobers up on that thought when there’s a sound at the door, before the knob is turned and the door swings open.

Sylvain turns from the window, catches sight of the figure by the door and freezes, his breath caught in his throat.

It’s him.

He’s dressed in a high collared dark grey shirt, a short white overcoat with puffy bishop sleeves, teal pants, long sturdy boots under blue gaiters that end above the knee, accentuating the length of his legs. He looks skinnier, the war burning off what baby fat was left where the end of teenhood didn’t, his cheekbones sharp. His hair’s been cut, the glossy length that Sylvain remembers sheared through, barely long enough to tie back, a messy sweep of bangs to the side. It’s unmistakably _him_.

Though his features have sharpened, Sylvain recognizes all of him - the furrow of his brow, the slope of his nose, the manner of his stance, and his eyes are the same bright bronze.

“Felix,” he breathes.

Felix shuts the door behind him absently, and stares back. Sylvain doesn’t know what Felix is seeing, what he’s thinking. He feels self conscious suddenly, standing straight, bringing a hand up to sweep part of his hair into something he hopes is better than what it was before. Almost two weeks in Garreg Mach, he’s barely kept up appearances since they took his possessions, and though he’s had the opportunity to wash, he hasn’t had a second change of clothes. He knows there’s an unkempt growth of stubble on his face. He’s a mess. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so busy being breathless.

“Sylvain,” Felix greets, with an awkward tip of his head. His first word to Sylvain in over two years.

“You...” Sylvain falters, unable to decide what he wants to say first.

‘ _Your hair!_ ’ he thinks, or maybe ‘ _You look different?_ ’’ or ‘ _You look well?_ ’

“You’re not armed,” Sylvain blurts out instead.

Felix blinks, looking taken aback, glancing down at his side, his hand awkwardly running down his front, stopping where his sword belt would have been if he had it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Sylvain’s mouth fails him when he needs it. Almost two weeks in his dank, boring room, whittling the hours down, rehearsing all the words he wanted to say to Felix after two years and three moons apart, and all his practiced vernacular flees him at the first sight of his old friend, in the flesh.

“Ferdinand insisted I leave my sword belt with him,” Felix responds simply, brow furrowed in annoyance, “He thinks you might take one of my blades and stab me with it.”

Never mind. They’re both idiots, actually. It’s _Felix_ , of course he’d respond as if what Sylvain just said isn’t the dumbest thing his brain could have thought of and is in fact a perfectly rational statement after two years without speaking to each other.

“Me? Wrestle a sword from you?” Sylvain laughs awkwardly.

“I know,” Felix says with a roll of his eyes, and it’s like they’ve never been separated. Two friends shooting the shit, as it were, a whole goddess-damned war and all the time apart, meaningless when they’re brought together again.

Goddess, Sylvain has missed him, so, so much.

“Well,” Sylvain says with a bit of good humour, releasing the curtain clutched in his grasp to venture towards the desk, “Tell me you have at least a knife on you.”

Felix frowns, shifting a leg, “Why? Do you want me to be armed when I talk to you?”

Sylvain pauses, unsettled by the question. Did... Has Felix come without even considering Sylvain might be a threat to his life? “You should be armed,” he states, “I could be here to kill you.”

Felix doesn’t even react to the idea of it. Sylvain thinks this might be the first ever case where Felix should be armed and looks completely unbothered that he isn’t. What has the war done to him?

“Are you here to kill me, Sylvain?” he simply asks.

“...No, Felix,” Sylvain stammers, “Of course not. I...” he looks down, “I would never.”

“Then there’s no need for me to be armed,” Felix says, glancing away, a swift conclusion to the topic, just like that.

Is it really that simple? A part of Sylvain is annoyed that von Aegir would just put Felix in a room with him without chaining Sylvain up or allowing Felix to bring with him a sword, especially knowing that imperial leadership still consider him to be a potential threat. Another part of him is shaken, affected by the trust Felix just gives him, even after two years on opposing sides of a war; that if Sylvain says he’s not going to hurt him then he’ll believe him and not be bothered by the fact he isn’t armed.

“I... I guess not.,” Sylvain says, quietly.

There’s an awkward silence after that. The two of them, standing on opposite sides of a wooden desk, neither of them quite daring to look the other in the eye. Felix is staring quite steadily at a knot in the wood of the desk, chewing on his lip, looking deep in thought. Sylvain steals glances at him, afraid of meeting the other man’s eye, but he can’t help wanting to see, trying to study his old friend, and gather all the details of his appearance so he can commit them all to memory and compare to what he remembers of him, the fading image he’s been so scared of losing7 all this time.

Sylvain considers taking a seat, but Felix doesn’t look inclined to do that - arms crossed as he leans against the door - 7and it seems rude to just plant himself down while Felix stands.

“...Why are you here, Sylvain?” Felix asks eventually, quietly. It’s almost a reluctant question, the way he voices it. He sounds unsure, like it’s not a question he wants to hear the answer to.

“What, did they send you to interrogate me too?” Sylvain deflects, annoyance filtering into his voice. So even this chat comes with imperial meddling: Felix pushed into the room to ask the questions von Vestra wants Sylvain to answer, “Can’t we catch up first? How have you been? I’ve been awful.”

Felix sighs, “Sylvain,” he says, reproachful, and that’s more like it, the undertone of irritation Sylvain has missed from his once closest friend.

“Felix, please,” Sylvain implores, “Can we...” he shakes his head, “I don’t want to talk about that yet.”

Maybe he will take a seat, after all.

“You can’t have much to say,” Felix says, acquiescing easily, as Sylvain pulls out the chair and sits in it, “What do you even get up to, wherever they put you?”

Sylvain shrugs, settling in his seat and planting his elbows on the table, “Not much, honestly.”

“They don’t let you leave?”

“No. Today’s been the first time I’ve seen the sun in days. Don’t even have a window.”

Felix frowns, looking bothered by that. Sylvain feels a little kick in his stomach, seeing the little furrow of his brow that tells him that Felix cares, “That’s...”

“I mean, I get it,” Sylvain tries to reassure him, pretending it doesn’t bother him, “Garreg Mach’s a busy place, and von Aegir and von Vestra don’t want my presence known too much, and they definitely don’t want me talking to people. Can’t really bring me outside without raising questions, right?”

“They’re not hurting you, are they?” Felix asks, an undertone of concern in his voice;7 the unspoken promise that he’ll do something about it if Sylvain answers in affirmative..

Sylvain swallows. It’s such a simple question, but for Felix to ask it, right here, like this, brings a swell of _something_ in his chest. For all the time apart spent worrying Felix had become someone he wouldn’t be able to understand - became someone who could stop caring about the people he left - and it seems that in the end, maybe he hasn’t changed at all. “No. I mean,” Sylvain smiles, weakly, “Unless you count boredom as an instrument of torture. Von Aegir visits, so it’s not like... I’m completely alone.”

Felix just frowns at that, glancing away again, staring firmly at the desk. The furrow of his brow is deepening and Sylvain really, really wants it to see it gone.

“What are you up to, these days?” he asks, leaning forward, trying to engage Felix in proper conversation, “Von Aegir said you were away, where’d you go?”

The swordsman meets his gaze, “I don’t think I can tell you that,” he responds neutrally, before his gaze darts away.

“Come on,” Sylvain prods, “Who am I going to tell? I’m literally trapped here.”

“...Ask something else,” Felix orders, with a quick shake of his head.

Sylvain hums, trying to think of something to ask. Felix has never been someone gifted at conversation, but he doesn’t recall conversations with him ever being this hard, “Well, I guess, what have you done since you got back?”

“Meetings. Reports. Training.”

“Wow, okay,” Sylvain laughs, a little awkwardly, but mostly genuinely because it’s... nice to know and recognize the parts of Felix that remain the same, “I guess some things don’t change.”

Felix shifts, rolling his shoulders against the door, looking slightly embarrassed, a little sheepish at his earlier answer, “Mercedes wrote to me,” he offers quietly, “I’m... thinking of what to write back.”

Sylvain perks up, “Oh yeah, she’s still in Adrestia isn’t she?” he asks, latching onto the topic, “How... how has she been? And Ashe too! How have... you guys been?”

“..They’re well,” Felix allows, with the briefest upturn of his mouth, “As much as... anyone in wartime can be.”

“That’s... good,” Sylvain says, and a weight releases in his chest; something like relief, to know the other two once Blue Lions are still alive and safe so far. He feels buoyed a little further by the briefest glimpse of Felix’s smile, “That’s great.”

“How has...” Felix starts to ask, then hesitates.

Sylvain watches him carefully, waiting for the rest of the question with baited breath.

Felix gives a little huff, looking away, “No,” he says quietly, “Never mind.”

Is he scared to ask or does he feel he doesn’t deserve to know? Felix looks closed off again, looking down, arms crossed, tighter, now, against his chest.

“They’ve missed you, Felix,” Sylvain answers anyway, the question Felix failed to voice. Dimitri has been furious, Dedue closed off, Ingrid angry and sad in turns, Annette mostly just sad, incredibly so, but they’ve all missed him and Ashe, and Mercedes, very deeply. Sylvain still feels that longing for better times, even now. He knows how deeply Felix was missed, personally, more than anyone else has missed him.

Felix snorts, derisive, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“We all did,” Sylvain argues, “Ingrid, Annette, His Maje--”

“Don’t,” Felix snaps, the word a crack through the air as he bares his teeth.

“...Why didn’t you tell us anything, Felix?” Sylvain asks, frustrated, flexing his fingers on the table, folding them into his palms and extending them again.

“There wasn’t anything to say,” Felix responds.

Sylvain fights off a flare of annoyance. He doesn’t want to be mad: this is just how Felix is: closed off, irritable, perfunctory. He should have said something, to his friends and family in Faerghus - they deserved to hear it. But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all.

“Did you...” Sylvain grits his teeth, bracing himself to ask, pushes the question out, “Know it was going to happen? In the Holy Tomb?”

It’s been a question he’s been harbouring for months, years. He never dared to voice it out loud, unwilling to give His Majesty or any of their friends in Faerghus ideas about the possibility that the Black Eagles were in the know before it all happened. Lady Rhea’s account of the incident could never be told straight, and Annette had always been reluctant to recall it. Even months after it happened, the archbishop could not recall it without being overcome with fury. They’d never pressed Annette after she'd reported what happened the first time, and Dimitri had never let Gilbert try to. In the end, motivations of the first warning of the impending war were less important than the the more immediate acts of the actual war itself.

“No,” Felix says firmly, and the clench in Sylvain’s chest loosens, just a bit.

Felix didn’t know. The rest of the Black Eagles didn’t know. That means that they didn’t plan to disappear. It means Felix hadn’t come to Sylvain the night before the final mission knowing that it would be a poor substitute for a goodbye.

“There wasn’t... time, in the Holy Tomb,” Felix says, haltingly, “Edelgard... she had planned things for a long time in secret. It came to head and I made a choice,” he meets Sylvain’s gaze, “I stand by it.”

Sylvain relaxes, leaning back in his chair. The fact Felix stands by his decision is a given, and it hurts, a little, to hear it from his lips - to know there’s no way back to Faerghus for him - but it’s less important to Sylvain than the fact that he hadn’t left so suddenly by choice.

He hadn’t planned to leave.

“We didn’t know what happened to you, for several moons,” Sylvain recalls. This, Felix could never have known, being where he was - impossible to reach over enemy lines - but it’s been something Sylvain has been determined to tell him, information he wants Felix to know, “It... really killed me, not knowing. I missed you, but nobody knew where you were, until...”

Felix tilts his head, studying him, waiting patiently as Sylvain chews on his lip and tries to decide how to proceed with his words.

“When reports started coming in that you were fighting for the Empire... people didn’t really quite believe it. Ingrid was heartbroken about it, and Duke Fraldarius--”

“I know what my father did.” Felix interrupts, harshly, his fists clenching in his sleeves with his arms crossed tight, “It was foolish of him, to waste so much time trying to make me come back.”

Sylvain swallows his words. Of course, Felix would know what Duke Fraldarius did. He would have been directly affected by the fervent year the Duke had spent organizing his own personal forces to try to bring his only son back to Faerghus. As it wasn’t part of the Duke’s official duties, Sylvain hadn’t been privy to the details, and Duke Fraldarius has never been one to share his failures, but Sylvain knows - from castle gossip, and from the few times he’d seen the Duke in Fhirdiad reacting to news for only his ears - that at least a few of those attempts had come close.

At least before that all ended with all the Faerghus dramatics, witnessed by half the lords of Faerghus and officially proclaimed to the rest after the fact.

Felix is probably remembering that now, the final explosive end, with the way he’s hunched into himself, the severity of his scowl. It wasn’t all that long ago, Sylvain supposes.

“His Majesty let him try, you know,” Sylvain utters, shifting target, “Of course he was angry, but... I think... Dimitri missed you too. He wanted you to come back.”

Felix closes his eyes, shaking his head minutely, mouthing words Sylvain can’t hear.

For a moment, he just stands there, head down, eyes closed. Sylvain waits, studying him. For a moment, Sylvain thinks he sees it, the shadow of regret gracing his features, before it’s wiped away again, replaced by his default scowl and stern determination.

“Well that doesn’t matter, does it?” he asks gravely, “We’re past that, and now he wants me dead,” he turns to face Sylvain, meeting his gaze, “What point are you trying to make, Sylvain?”

Sylvain looks away, “Nothing,” he responds, reluctantly. He’s not really sure he had a point, he just wanted Felix to know, “I just... I wish... you could have told us something, even if it was after the war started. Just... let us know why you were gone.”

Felix sighs.

“You being on the other side...” Sylvain recalls, “It hurt, but... not knowing the reason made it worse.”

“It wasn’t important.”

“We were worried about you, Felix!” Sylvain snaps back. How could Felix say it wasn’t important? It was; he has no idea how much it plagued his thoughts, Ingrid’s thoughts and everyone else’s, to have to fight on a side against the people they knew and loved and not know why they were on the other side, “Nobody knew where you were, except that you had been in the Holy Tomb with the rest of your class, and then you never came back! Were you injured? Were you a hostage? Were they forcing you to fight? Everyone was worried! I...”

Sylvain stumbles on his words, to find the key admission of what he wants to say.

“I was worried,” Sylvain says when he finds them, and speaks with all his heart.

Felix hums, “Foolish,” he responds.

It cuts deeper than any wound could have, if Felix had brought a sword in the room and swung.

“Felix!” Sylvain cries, one part insulted, two parts pained.

“If I were a hostage, you would have known about it,” Felix responds, impatiently, “And when have I ever bent to empty threats and blackmail? I don’t do things I don’t believe in. You should know that.”

Sylvain grits his teeth. Felix isn’t wrong, he would know himself best, and if Sylvain had thought about it like that, maybe he would have known. But he’s not Felix, he doesn’t think like Felix - Sylvain worries: he thinks up worst case scenarios, gets dragged into spiraling thoughts of concern, sinks into despair, thinking about the worst that might have happened.

It’s not fair for Felix to say that, like Sylvain should know better, because how could Sylvain know better in the face of the disappearance of his best friend and the sudden imperial attack signaling continental war?

“...If I had known you all would have been so caught up in it, I...” Felix shuffles awkwardly where he stands, looking sheepish again.

Sylvain collects himself as Felix struggles for words.

In the end, he shakes his head and doesn’t voice them, “Forget it,” he says, pushing off the door to stand straight.

Sylvain sighs, a harsh exhale, frustration with Felix building again. He never finds the words, and always gives up before trying to say them.

With the weight of two years apart and all the awful tangled feelings about the mess, the habit of his is worse than ever to weather as his partner in conversation.

“What are you doing here, Sylvain?” Felix asks, done with reminiscence and preamble.

Fine, if that’s how it is. “I’m talking to you,” Sylvain snarks back.

“At Garreg Mach, Sylvain,” Felix specifies impatiently, planting a hand on the desk, “Why did you come?”

Sylvain shrugs, “Good a place as any.”

“Sylvain!” Felix snaps.

He’s so easy to rile up. Sylvain leans back in his chair, meeting Felix’s frustrated gaze evenly as he tips back his chair. It is very nice to have a chair with even legs for once. He doesn’t say anything, letting Felix stew in his noncompliance.

Felix brings a hand up to his face, shaking his head, “Look,” he starts.

“Uh huh,” Sylvain interrupts, hiking his right leg over his left knee and starting to wobble his chair back and forth, balancing on the back two legs, “I’m looking,” he says, giving Felix an exaggerated once over of his lithe form, specifically to annoy him.

“That’s...” Felix growls, crossing his arms and instinctively half turning away under his gaze, “I’m trying to help you, Sylvain.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain responds snidely, “You can help me by not telling me I’m an idiot when I tell you I was worried about you when you and your class disappeared and you never came back."

“I didn’t say you’re an idiot,” Felix replies slowly, each word underlining his frustration.

“Yeah, well it sure felt like you did,” Sylvain mutters, crossing his arms and looking aside.

Felix closes his eyes and exhales through his nose, forcefully expelling the irritation from his body, “Sylvain,” he says, evenly.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m... Sorry,” he says, with a short nod, reopening his eyes, “That-- what happened... It wasn’t my intention.”

Sylvain gently tips his chair back onto all four of its legs, meeting Felix’s gaze to show him he’s listening.

“You just...” Felix’s gaze darts aside again, his left hand flapping awkwardly in the air before resting on his hip - he probably wanted to rest in on the pommel of the sword that usually sits there - “You didn’t need to worry, Sylvain,” he says, firmly, “I was fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sylvain repeats, to make sure Felix knows.

“No,” he concedes, “I guess you didn't.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His own irritation bleeds out of him quickly. He didn’t expect the apology, truth be told. Felix isn’t good with them and in any other situation he would have left the room instead. But he apologized. He’s trying - what for, Sylvain doesn’t know - but at the least it means he wants to talk to Sylvain, and he doesn’t want to spend this talk angry. Neither does Sylvain.

After a moment, Felix shifts, then reaches for the chair on his own side, pulling it out to take a seat properly across from Sylvain. He looks slightly uncomfortable, for a moment, before he straightens his back and crosses his legs.

“Why did you come to Garreg Mach, Sylvain?” he asks again, “You... you’ve spent two years fighting for the Kingdom, and you’ve never...” he gestures absently, fumbling his words, “I just don’t understand how and why you’d endanger your life doing something so... foolish.”

Sylvain gives a tired shrug, “...I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he admits.

“The whole of the Kingdom was open to you, Sylvain!” Felix points out with a sweep of his arm, “Why would you turn your back on it like this? What happened?”

If Sylvain didn’t know any better, he’d think Felix was upset about Sylvain’s decisions on behalf of the Kingdom.

He doesn’t answer, shifting uncomfortably, looking away.

Felix leans forward, bringing a hand to his mouth, considering his next words, “Hubert said,” he says, hesitant, glancing up at Sylvain through his lashes, perhaps expecting him to react poorly to the mention of von Vestra, “You... killed your escort of Gautier knights before you turned south.”

Sylvain winces, feeling ice drip through his veins. He didn’t want Felix to know that. Of all the things he never intended Felix to know, that’s one at the top. “Oh, he told you that huh,” he manages to say.

“What... happened,” Felix ventures, as gently as he can sound, “On the way to Gautier?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvain responds, immediately.

Felix huffs, a burst of subtle irritation, “Sylvain!”

“I don’t know, okay!” Sylvain cries, crumbling easily under Felix’s annoyance, “I just...” he flounders, “My hand slipped.”

“Your hand slipped,” Felix echoes, disbelievingly.

When he says it like that it sounds so stupid, but he doesn’t know how else to say it.

“Listen,” Sylvain implores, leaning forward, gesturing sharply, “The Lance of Ruin’s a powerful relic. Lot of pent up rage in that thing.”

Felix frowns, tilting his head. He looks intent, focused, figuring him out word by word, “Do you have a lot of pent up rage, Sylvain?” he asks.

Words fail him. Sylvain doesn’t know what it is - the sudden redirect of his throwaway statement? The way Felix is just taking him seriously? Or is it how quickly Felix looked right through him to see the ugly thing he’s been hiding for so long in the depths of his soul?

“What happened, Sylvain?” Felix asks. He doesn’t push or demand. Keeps back all of his sharp edges and the force that’s usually behind all his attacks, verbal or not. It’s a gentle question, perfectly neutral; like no matter what Sylvain says, Felix will never judge him.

He really wants to believe that: that Felix will never judge him.

There’s a part of his heart that knows that it might even be true.

Sylvain swallows, resting his forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers and holding on tight, “I panicked,” he whispers, “I think.”

It happened in a flash. He doesn’t recall all of it, just... moments, still images. The movement of the escort ahead of him, was it an attack formation? Protective formation? Surprised yells, screaming, the horrible crack the Lance makes, when it releases its power, like a cry for destruction, for vengeance, for help. The silence afterwards: damning, hollow.

“Look,” Sylvain swallows, staring hard at the desk, “I... I probably wasn’t in my right mind. I had a lot... a lot going on, it was stressing me out and...” he brings a hand to his mouth, chewing nervously on his thumbnail, “One of the knights thought they heard something, there’ve been a lot of bandits, unrest in the Kingdom, along the borders - Itha, Gautier, Fraldarius...” he laughs nervously, under his breath, “You know how it is.”

Felix doesn’t react beyond a furrow of his brow.

“They went to investigate it, and I...” Sylvain swallows, “It was an accident?”

He braces for the inevitable judgement, condemnation. _How could you, Sylvain? A battalion of your own people! And for what?_ He can’t bear to see it, the reaction, the horror. He knows it’s coming.

The aftermath was messy; it always is, with a relic. Sylvain remembers the moment he came back to himself when it was all over: the silence, all signs of life having fled. Belle hadn’t spooked because she’s been his mare for so long - a specially trained Gautier bred warhorse - bearing his weight through every battlefield he’s had to take to since the war began, in Sreng, in the Kingdom, in the Empire. She’s become desensitized to the wrath of the Lance. It still shakes Sylvain, though, when the fighting’s done. The crater the thing’s power can leave in the earth, the fallen shapes of splintered trees, and the awful smell of ash and blood in the air. The mess of carnage, of bodies, in its wake.

He doesn’t want to hear a judgement from Felix. This is why he didn’t want him to know.

“What was on your mind, Sylvain?” Felix asks through the fog of fear, breaching his mind.

“Huh?” Sylvain asks dumbly, shaking himself free from his thoughts.

“On your journey,” Felix clarifies, the quirk of his brow the only indication of his irritation, “You said something was on your mind.”

“Oh,” Sylvain says, dumbly. His heart flutters, shaken. For Felix to hear him confirm what he did, and ask not about why he did it or how he could dare to, but about _Sylvain_...

The longing ache in his chest he’s lived with for the last two years flares to life anew. How did he survive doing what he did so long without him?

“It’s...” Sylvain stammers, “It’s stupid, really.”

“Is it?” Felix asks skeptically, “It was weighing heavily enough to cloud your judgement.”

For a long moment, Sylvain sits in silence. There are so many layers of things he doesn’t want to say. One layer peeled back, and the one under just as reticent.

He would never have broached this with von Aegir, or von Vestra.

But to Felix, he thinks it’s okay to say.

“My father wants-” Sylvain fumbles. He hates saying this out loud, but if he doesn’t say it, it’ll smother him, “He wanted me to get married.”

Felix doesn’t recoil so much as he straightens, leaning back suddenly with an offended little frown, “...We’re in the middle of a war,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Sylvain laughs bitterly, “Didn’t matter to him. No better time, in his opinion. Give people a reason to celebrate!”

Felix opens his mouth, then decides against speaking for now, shutting it and giving Sylvain a tiny nod to continue.

Sylvain sighs, “He probably wants the line of succession secured before I get killed in battle or something, I don’t know.” He shrugs, then takes a breath and rushes through the words, “Anyway, as he was giving me my last order to return to Gautier, he told me I was going to meet my future wife before I went back to the border. He’d... arranged everything, while I was at Fhirdiad, and never told me until I was literally getting ready to go back.”

He chances a glance at Felix. He looks... upset. There’s anger there, of course, but also confusion, disbelief as well, but mostly he looks... upset. Something between sad and mad. Sylvain doesn’t know how to describe it.

“I don’t remember everything I did on the way to Gautier,” Sylvain continues, “Not all of it. I just...” he trails off.

“Are you saying you...” Felix searches for the words, gaze darting left, then right as he tries to fit a sentence that adequately summarizes his thoughts, “You... left the Kingdom because you didn’t want to get _married_?”

Sylvain can’t place if he’s mad or incredulous. He just sounds _distressed_. “That’s not...” Sylvain stammers, “There’s a lot of other reasons-”

Felix shakes his head, crossing his arms as he digests what he’s just heard.

“I guess it was just...” Sylvain waves a hand absently in the air, “The final push,” he says, dully, and slowly drops his hands to rest on the table.

The last straw in a long list of troubles.

Felix reaches out, a tentative hand, crossing the desk to hover as close as he dares to Sylvain’s arms, before he thinks better of it, pulling back, “Sylvain,” he says, quietly, attempting to comfort him, perhaps.

It’s such a small aborted gesture, but it’s enough. Suddenly Sylvain wants to talk. There’s so much he wants to say, suddenly, and if he doesn’t get it out, he’s going to regret it because he wants Felix to know. He _needs_ him to know.

“I just couldn’t do it anymore, Felix,” he blurts out, every thought he’s had weighing on his mind, building since the war began, “Every spring, I’m at the border, fighting Sreng, trying to keep them from invading Gautier, and come fall, I’m back in Fhirdiad trying to contribute at the roundtable and plan to defeat the empire. Except, I miss out on what’s going on because I’ve spent six moons in Gautier, so what do I even have to contribute when my father is there anyway? So they send me off to fight in the west instead. And when I’m not just sitting in Fhirdiad doing nothing, I’m there letting Ingrid knock me on my ass every other day in training.”

Felix keeps quiet and listens, as Sylvain just lets it out.

“Two years at war, doing the same thing - fighting Sreng because my father tells me to, then doing nothing at the roundtable before going to fight the empire because His Majesty tells me to - and... I just...” Sylvain chokes on his words, “I just didn’t see what I was fighting _for_.”

The mess just bursts into the open, just like that. The most awful truth of the whole affair and the darkest of his personal secrets. It’s sacrilege, what he’s just said, especially as a son of Gautier - a noble son of Faerghus. The truth of the matter is: he’s spent two years fighting people he’s been told to fight, and when he started questioning what the point of it all was, no answer he heard sounded like it mattered.

“You were fighting for Faerghus,” Felix says, simply, as Sylvain puts himself together.

“Yeah?” Sylvain scoffs, frustration coming to bear, “And?” he asks, maliciously, “What happens when Faerghus wins? I go back to Gautier, fight Sreng for the rest of my life, and maybe pop out a kid with a crest after however many kids without one in a marriage with a woman I’ll never love before I die.”

He spits it out like poison, the inevitable future he’s done everything he could to avoid, since the day he decided that if this was all his father saw he was good for, he’d be as contrary as he could to avoid it. If every woman out there wanted his crest, then they’d have to brave the worst of him for the chance to grab it.

“I saw that whole empty future stretched out in front of me, on my ride back to Gautier, and I thought...” Sylvain swallows, looking up to meet Felix’s wide-eyed gaze, “ _I can’t do this anymore_.”

What happened after, well. They’ve already gone over that.

There’s another silence after that. Felix likes to have those in conversation, Sylvain is re-learning. Long moments to just think of what to say, to contemplate what was just said. Sylvain usually hates the silence, filling it with chatter, but this time around he finds he appreciates it. He needs these silences, after all: just a few moments to pull the jagged pieces of himself back together into something that might weather the next topic of conversation with something halfway resembling grace.

“Why Garreg Mach?” Felix asks quietly.

“...what?” Sylvain asks, drifting back to the present.

“Why did you come to Garreg Mach?” Felix repeats.

Sylvain looks down, “I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. And...” he pauses, swallows, “I thought, well, now I’ve done it. There’s no way they’ll let me live for doing this. This looks bad -this _is_ bad - and if His Majesty doesn’t kill me, my father definitely will. So I thought, well, might as well go to Garreg Mach! It’s the closest imperial stronghold, and some of my old classmates might be there. Going can’t be worse than what will happen if I stay here!”

Felix frowns at him. It’s his favourite frown: the one that tells Sylvain he’s full of shit. He’s missed seeing it.

“I thought, maybe Felix is there,” Sylvain confesses quietly, “And I’ll get to see him before I die.”

Felix swallows, Sylvain can see the bob of his throat as he looks away, unsure of how to take such an honest answer.

“So I turned Belle south and just rode as fast as she would take me. Did what I could to get as much of a head start before news of what happened reached Gautier or Fhirdiad; avoided towns, went off road, barely slept... then I concocted this whole plan to approach the monastery as non threateningly as possible and ask to join the imperial army,” Sylvain summarizes, “Because they might invite me in if I do, and if I demand to see you enough times, they’d let me,” he shrugs, “Worst case scenario, giving over the Lance might buy me a few days, and... hopefully, I could request to see you as a last wish before they put me down.”

Felix’s mouth falls open. He stares right at Sylvain, his brows furrowing as he collects himself, “What were you _thinking_?” he asks, outraged.

Sylvain winces, shrugs, “I dunno,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Probably wasn’t thinking.”

“Sylvain! You can’t just... throw your whole life away on a whim and just... walk into an enemy stronghold and _hope_ you don’t get killed doing it!” Felix lambastes him, “What if the watchmen were less willing to talk? What if you’d been caught by Kingdom forces on your... impulsive journey south! What it Ferdinand just decided you’d be better off dead?!”

“Well I made it and he let me live, so,” Sylvain retorts, lamely, “Yay?"

“Sylvain!” Felix shouts.

“Look,” Sylvain interjects, before Felix can start a tirade about his bad decision making, “I didn’t have a lot of options. I just did what... I thought would give me the best chance to see you,” he shakes his head firmly, “I’m not going to apologize for that,” he declares, “and I’m not going to regret it, not when you’re right here talking to me right now.”

There’s a long silence after, as Sylvain glares down at the desk surface, and Felix, presumably, glares at him. His time at Garreg Mach so far hasn’t been ideal, he’ll be the first to admit it - being locked in a tiny room with nothing to do has sucked, it really has. But he doesn’t regret it, and if he did before, he definitely doesn’t now, because he got to see Felix.

Felix is right here, right now, in front of him, and his stupid plan to walk up to the gates _worked_ so he’s not going to tell Felix he’s sorry for endangering his own life, or that he regrets doing it.

Because he doesn’t. He _can’t_.

“You’re so _stupid_ , Sylvain,” Felix says, voice choked with emotion.

Sylvain looks up. Felix looks stricken. Like he can’t believe Sylvain could say what he just did, like he can’t believe Sylvain did what he did. For a brief moment, Sylvain feels like he’s a child again, staring a young Felix in the face, on the cusp of an emotional upheaval.

He feels it rising in his chest too, a dense ball of emotion punching up from his weak yearning heart to clog itself in his throat, making it hard to speak.

“Yeah,” he croaks, “Yeah I really am.”

Felix laughs, covering his mouth with a hand, turning away so Sylvain doesn’t see it. It’s such a short sound - half buried under a choked up noise - but it’s there, and Sylvain smiles.

“I missed you so much, Felix,” he rasps, pushing the words past the ball of emotion in his throat, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

He reaches out with his hands across the table, to gently reach for the hand Felix has left on the table, his fingertips barely touching Felix’s own.

Felix lets him.

For a moment, they just sit there, Felix staring down at their hands on the table, just touching, and Sylvain staring at Felix, studying his face while he looks down. Then Felix pulls away gently, folding his hands on the table, finished composing himself, ready to continue. Sylvain pulls back reluctantly, leaning back in his chair.

“Sylvain,” Felix asks, “Do you want to join the imperial army?”

“I...” Sylvain glances away, “I don’t know,” he admits.

His plea to join had been a means to an end - he said it to ward off an immediate execution, and repeated it to get an in to plead his case to speak with Felix. Given the possibility of doing it for real, he doesn’t think he can.

He doesn’t want to fight Faerghus - fight Ingrid, Dedue, Annette...

Dimitri.

“But I don’t want to go back to Faerghus either,” Sylvain continues, “There’s nothing there for me. I can’t go back.”

Felix knows that better than anyone. The law of the land is firm: Faerghus never forgives a betrayal, and she never forgets it. Even if Sylvain never fights against the Kingdom personally, turning away from it is enough as a Gautier, just as it had been for Felix as a Fraldarius.

“Okay,” Felix agrees, without fuss.

“Do you think...” Sylvain ventures, then stops.

Felix meets his gaze.

“Do you think they’ll let me out?”

He looks away again, “I don’t know.”

“...Oh,” Sylvain tries not to let the disappointment take over him, but it’s hard.

“I hope so, Sylvain.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I can... talk... with Ferdinand and Hubert,” Felix offers, tapping his finger on the desk, no doubt already thinking ahead, how to broach the topic with his superiors.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sylvain says quickly, “I mean, you’re from Faerghus too, I don’t want to jeopardize whatever you’ve got here.”

He’s not here to make things difficult for Felix. He wouldn’t forgive himself if this does.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Felix dismisses, meeting his gaze across the table, “I want to,” he says, firmly.

There isn’t anything Sylvain to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all, and lets the warm feeling of knowing Felix wants to try to help him flood over him instead.

“Is there... anything else you want to say, Sylvain?” Felix asks, “If not, I should... probably report back-”

“I missed you,” Sylvain blabs instantly, a thoughtless spillover of his strongest thoughts.

Felix huffs, reluctantly amused, “You already said that.”

“Yeah, but I want you to _know_ ,” Sylvain insists, he starts rubbing at his own knuckles again, occupying his hands, “Nothing was the same without you, Felix. I tried... so hard to do what was asked of me but... Knowing you weren’t there...” he stops, licks his dry lips, “You weren’t there, when Dimitri was crowned. You weren’t there when Ingrid was knighted... After that, it... it really started sinking in. If I got married... you wouldn’t be there. If... if Faerghus won against the Empire, you wouldn’t be there. For the rest of my life, if I stayed in Faerghus... you wouldn’t be there.”

He glances up to stare Felix in the eye, watching him as he absorbs what Sylvain says, intently, betraying only brief glimpses of emotion as he listens.

“I didn’t want that,” Sylvain says, “So even though von Aegir locked me in that... shitty underground room, I’m glad I’m here because I got to see you.”

“Sylvain,” Felix murmurs. This time, it’s only a little chiding. Slightly disapproving, at how easily Sylvain submits himself to punishment in exchange for a chance to see him.

“...Yeah, you can call me stupid if you want,” Sylvain agrees, “I know--”

“Don’t,” Felix interrupts this time, not interested in his self-flagellation, “I...” he hesitates, just once, “I missed you too.”

Sylvain’s mouth breaks into a grin, wide and easy, “Yeah?” he asks, just shy of a tease.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” Felix mutters, embarrassed, glancing away, cheeks pink.

Oh, _Goddess_ , Sylvain has missed him.

“...Will you come back?” Sylvain asks quietly, “To visit me.”

“If they’ll let me,” Felix responds as he makes to stand.

“Oh,” Sylvain tries not to let the response disappoint him. He can’t help it. He doesn’t like it, knowing the next time he could have this reunion with an old friend, it’d be at a whims of imperial leadership.

Felix probably doesn’t like the look on his face, because he shakes his head and changes his response, “I’ll try,” he states instead.

“Promise?” Sylvain asks, with a cheeky grin, raising a hand to wiggle his pinky at him.

Felix huffs, glancing aside, “...Yes, Sylvain,” he says, dutifully, “I... promise.”

He doesn’t wave his own pinky back.

Sylvin guesses that’s good enough.

“Thanks,” he says genuinely, standing as well, “Hey actually, can you...” he gestures.

Felix frowns, giving him a questioning look, “What.”

“Come over,” Sylvain says, waving his hand, gesturing him over, “Humour me, just this once.”

Felix gives him a dubious look, but rounds the table anyway, approaching him slowly like a cautious monastery cat.

When he’s within arms reach, Sylvain opens his arms: the clearest invitation he can make.

Felix takes a long moment to frown at him, ever resistant to displays of affection, but eventually sighs and shifts his weight, dropping his arms and mirroring him in a much less enthusiastic fashion.

Sylvain lunges, wrapping his arms around him, engulfing him in his arms and holding on tight. Felix gives a muffled sound of discomfort into his collarbone before he adjusts, tipping his head back to rest his chin on his shoulder, his arms jerk hesitantly before he returns the hug, arms coming together around his back.

It’s definitely not a good hug: his outfit’s days old, Felix doesn’t fit quite like he used to in his arms, and he’s rubbing his scruff against Felix’s head, something the shorter man definitely doesn’t appreciate, based on his grumbling and subtle squirming away.

Maybe it’s not the best hug he’s ever given, but Sylvain puts all his effort in to make it the tightest.

**~o.O.o~**

**Lone Moon  
** **1182**  
 **Winter  
** **Castle Blaiddyd, Fhirdiad**

It’s snowing, when Sylvain readies himself to leave Fhirdiad. The Lone Moon is on its way out, the return of the Great Tree Moon in three days time introducing the impending return of spring to the land. Of course, this far north, it will be many weeks yet before the chill of winter recedes, yielding to the growth of spring.

He’d prefer to remain in the capital for the new year celebrations, but the Margrave was adamant he leave now. He’s not sure what’s got his father so insistent to push him out, but if he’s learned anything as a son of Gautier, it’s that it’s not worth questioning his father before him. It’s not like there’s been much reason to celebrate, anyway. The archbishop might lead a sermon in the city cathedral to welcome the new year, but Sylvain hasn’t been a devout attendee to service for a while, especially any lead by Lady Rhea.

Her anger has been bleeding into her oration, and her preaching morphing into judicious rants for heavenly retribution.

It’s been hard to stomach.

A stable hand brings his faithful destrier from the castle stables and he nods his thanks before he turns to her, patting her and murmuring nonsense compliments as she knocks her big head into his armoured chest.

If anything, he supposes he can enjoy the ride. Belle is a good horse - the best he’s had - and her company is more than enough in the solitude of the journey. The winters he spends in Fhirdiad are always in constant company of others, and though he’s glad to see his friends and allies, sometimes he yearns for the silence that comes with riding in the wilderness. With each time he makes the journey, he’s finding the time he enjoys most is the ride, rather than either destination.

This past winter has been a fraught one, filled with bad news from the war: too many setbacks in the Church and the Kingdom’s war plans. The winter has been harsh in Faerghus this year, made even worse by imperial strikes on southern grain stores, forcing rationing upon the northern and eastern territories, redistributing supplies throughout the Kingdom so the southern lands don’t starve. Many starve and die anyway.

Ingrid has been especially bitter, upset, these past few moons. Galatea is already a poor territory; to be struck deliberately in such a manner is an incredibly low blow.

His Majesty has been so busy - and more and more irritable, getting harder to speak to without the anger taking hold. Sylvain’s barely even had much of a chance to spend time with Ingrid, with her mounting responsibilities with the Kingsguard. She’s been taking extra missions with the knights, travelling back and forth from Fhirdiad to the western front, doing her part at Arianrhod, working harder than ever in her service to the Kingdom as if doing so will allow her to strike back at the Empire for wounding her home so terribly.

The mood in Fhirdiad is the worst it’s ever been since the beginning of the war - even Duke Fraldarius doesn’t even try to maintain a modicum of cheer anymore, as if in mourning. Considering what happened at the start of the season, and the wound he sustained at his last explosive battle, the effects of which continue to linger, Sylvain understands, even if he finds it difficult to relate to the man nowadays. The leaders of the Church only get more sullen, if they’re not just filled with fury the longer the war drags on. At times, the castle’s felt more like a kettle - under pressure, ready to burst - than a keep. He’s almost guilty that he’s getting an excuse to leave.

Not that the northern border of Gautier is much better: a battered frozen no-man’s land where Sylvain spends his endless days fighting a northern menace that strikes irregularly, cautiously, repelled more often than not when the Lance of Ruin appears on the horizon.

As important as his father keeps saying it is, it feels hard to believe, when most of the time, between the sudden brief strikes by the Srengi people, he just spends time wandering back and forth along the northern line, wondering what’s happening in the fight against the Empire.

Sometimes he wonders what the worth of him being up there is at all.

“Sylvain,” an austere voice calls, and Sylvain straightens instinctively at the sound. He turns, standing at attention.

“...Father,” he acknowledges simply. with a nod of his head, stepping back from his horse.

Margrave Laurent Andrés Gautier is still an imposing man, even at the age he is now. Some would say he’s past his prime - as he’s certainly one of the oldest of his generation, older than Duke Fraldarius, and King Lambert in his time - but Sylvain knows how foolish it would be to think that. The Margrave’s mind is sharp as ever, and Sylvain knows personally the might of his lance still. Despite the grey in his hair, he cuts an imposing feature as he approaches, draped in furs, the symbol of his house emblazoned on his wartime armour; the picture perfect warlord of the north, “I trust I can rely on you, to continue the steadfast defence of the border? The duty of our house is in your hands, as always.”

“Of course,” Sylvain responds. It’s annoying, to always be reminded of the duty he has to the house but he knows better than to show it.

The Margrave looks aside with a sneer, “If it were up to me, you needn’t make the trip here at all,” he says, “The Srengi are a clever people, they know the north, and thrive in winter. It’s a risk having you and the Lance here every year.”

Sylvain gives a tight smile, holding back his indignation on Dimitri’s behalf, to hear his father so blatantly disagree with the decisions of his King, “Well, it wouldn’t do to disobey His Majesty’s orders,” Sylvain responds mildly. “If he asks me to come, how can I refuse?”

His father narrows his eyes but only gives a dismissive hum in response.

Sylvain takes his lance in hand and climbs atop his horse, settling in the saddle before securing the lance on his shoulder belt, slung across his back. It’s awkward, but for long distances, he’d rather ride without having to hold it in his hands.

His father watches him, an expression of neutral displeasure, as always, on his dour face.

“The road is clear, my son,” he says, in a low rumble, authoritative, “I expect your trip to take no less than two days. You will report to Denis at the manor on your arrival. You will _not_ dawdle.”

Sylvain snorts, “What’s the rush?” he asks, “The snow’s not going to melt enough for the Srengi to really start throwing themselves at us for at least another two weeks. The border corps will be fine without me for a bit.”

The Margrave glares at him, “Your responsibilities to Gautier do not begin and end only at the watchtower, Sylvain.”

“Paperwork isn’t going to go anywhere,” Sylvain retorts, as Belle nudges a hoof into the dirt, tossing her head impatiently, “Denis has been handling it, hasn’t he? But sure, I’ll talk over everything with him, I always do.”

At this point, with the Margrave away in Fhirdiad almost all year, and Sylvain as well, for half of it, the steward of House Gautier could probably run the whole region by himself. Sylvain doesn’t know why his father’s so bothered, his steward keeps the manor running so smoothly. Every time Sylvain returns to the north he feels like he’s just mucking up the system for a good two weeks before he gets his bearings again.

“This isn’t about paperwork.”

Sylvain’s easy smile freezes as he turns to look down at his father, fading as he meets his hard gaze.

There aren’t a lot of things his father likes to drill into him about, concerning the responsibilities he owes Gautier as a region and a house. If it’s not the border, or the lordly duties as the future margrave, it can only be the one thing he dreads to hear from his father’s mouth.

“You will be meeting with Lord Joubert, from Itha, on the second day of the Great Tree Moon,” Margrave Gautier orders. His voice is firm and brooks no argument. These are statements of fact, indisputable: things Sylvain will do without question, “This meeting is to seal the arrangement for your engagement to his daughter, the young Lady Joubert.”

Sylvain blinks, feeling dizzy, suddenly, by what he’s just been told, “...What,” he manages to say weakly, the air suddenly leaving him as he stares vacantly at his father’s grim form.

“I’ve worked out all the details for the engagement,” he says, unconcerned about Sylvain’s state of shock, uninterested in his mental turmoil, “Your travels should see you to the Gautier manor with ample time to make yourself presentable to the Lord and his daughter.”

The words mean things, Sylvain knows. But put together, none of them make sense. What is his father even _saying_?

“Once they arrive, as soon as you seal your agreement as heir to our house and exchange the appropriate courtesies and your rings, you will formally be engaged to Lady Clarissa Elise Joubert.”

“Who?” Sylvain chokes, letting out a laugh of incredulity, “I’ve never even met her!”

“She’s a polished young lady, well educated, with formal education from the Sorcerer’s Academy,” his father responds, calmly, “I endeavoured to find a match similar to you in age, I’m aware of your preferences on this matter. She will make a fine wife and mother.”

Oh, he’s going to be _sick_.

“I don’t know this lady!” Sylvain shouts, steadying his horse when she shuffles nervously at his voice. He’s getting angry, letting his frustrations out. This is madness, what his father is saying. He can’t _do_ this! “Don’t I at least get a say in this if I’m going to get engaged? For Seiros’ sake, at least let me meet her first before you just formally decide for me if I even want to marry her!”

“You’ve proven I can’t leave pre-arranged meetings to chance,” Margrave Gautier snaps, beginning to lose his patience, and Sylvain feels his body snap to attention at the change in his father’s voice, years of conditioning making itself known, again, “The Dupont family have not forgiven the insult when you didn’t even deign to show to meet their daughter eight months ago. I will not have you embarrass me again.”

“I was watching the border!” Sylvain argues, “You would have me abandon my duty in the north to meet some girl I’ve never met for _tea_? We were being _attacked_.”

“Your dedication to the border is not in question,” the margrave concedes, "But this is equally important.”

It is absolutely _not_ as important, if Sylvain has any say in it. How on earth can he say this with a straight face, that the arrangement of a marriage is as important as holding the border, as important as the war going on threatening the entire land and their way of life?

“This way, we formalize things before you get the chance to muck it up with your capricious misbehaviour,” his father snarls, frustration after months, years of failed arrangements coming to bear, “With an engagement set, perhaps you’ll finally find a means to behave as a man of the house should.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sylvain snaps, “You’re out of your mind.”

“You have a duty to your house, Sylvain.”

“We’re at war! I don’t have time for this--”

“You will do as I say!”

Sylvain flinches. Belle shifts nervously, stamping a hoof into the earth when he tenses.

“You know, more than anyone, the importance of securing a line of succession for Gautier, for the Kingdom,” the margrave lectures, glaring up at him. Somehow, even atop a horse, Sylvain still feels small, pinned under the angry gaze of his father, “I will not sit here idle and watch you squander your time while the continent is at war. Every month you waste here, you waste precious time better spent securing a match to ensure the survival of our house.”

Sylvain swallows. The survival of the house? He’s alive isn’t he? Why does he need to ensure the next generation when he’s right here? He’s alive right now!

“You will go to Gautier, and you will arrive _on time_ ,” his father commands, stepping forth, and Sylvain urges his horse back a step, instinctively, “You will meet Lord Joubert and his daughter, and you _will_ finalize the agreement between our houses.”

Like hell he will.

“You’ve given me a really tight timetable,” Sylvian deflects, “Who’s to say I won’t run into trouble on the road?” he asks offhand.

If he’s heinously late again, maybe this insult to the latest suitor will ward off the next, at least until the war’s over, however many years down the line that might be.

“You won’t.”

Sylvain stares at his father. The margrave glares back, resolute.

“You will be escorted to Gautier by a battalion of my knights,” he says, and Sylvain’s premature plans crash into pieces around him, “There will be no tarrying on your way to your destination.”

“An _escort_?” he cries in disbelief, “I’m not a child--”

“I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

Sylvain bites his tongue.

“When I return to Gautier during the Blue Sea Moon, I expect you and your future wife to be well acquainted.”

Another wave of nausea comes over him. Each second longer this conversation drags on, it gets worse, urging him to vomit his brunch all over the back of his poor horse.

“If I hear from Denis that you’ve insulted the honour of Lord Joubert and his family by refusing the agreement we’ve made between our houses, I will find you,” Margrave Gautier promises in a deep growl, “Wherever you are in Gautier, whether it be the manor or the border, and I will _personally_ ensure you apologize for your behaviour and make up for any transgressions you make. Do I make myself clear?”

Sylvain makes a panicked breath of sound, the air fleeing his lungs, his throat unable to give him voice.

“Answer me!” his father yells, and it echoes in the castle courtyard, bouncing off the stone walls.

“Yes, sir,” Sylvain chokes out.

Margrave Gautier steps back, satisfied with his son’s voiced obedience, regardless of the nature of it, “Denis will give you further details when you arrive in Gautier,” he says, “My men will meet you at the eastern gate. Don’t let me down, Sylvain.”

And with that, he turns his back and marches back into the depths of the castle, leaving Sylvain to stare at the back of him, and the crest of Gautier, embroidered in painstaking detail upon his cloak.

He turns away in a jerky movement, and kicks Belle into motion.

He has to get out, he has to leave.

The mare snorts and takes off, reacting to his agitation with her own, taking off at a swift canter - inappropriate for the castle grounds, but Sylvain can’t find it in himself to care.

She rushes him to the Eastern gate and through it, and he doesn’t heed the gatekeeper or the watchmen as they wave him off. As soon as he’s outside, his father’s battalion of Gautier knights waiting outside, fall into formation seamlessly around him, despite his hurried pace.

Goddess and all her _Saints_ , the old man was serious.

Sylvain refuses to slow down. He needs his space, he needs to think. If they’re this determined to escort him, he’s going to make them fucking work for it.

He spurs his horse on, and she responds instantly, kicking up the pace, and gallops onwards towards Gautier.

**~o.O.o~**

Sylvain rides in a daze.

The scenery blurs past, but he can’t be sure if it’s the speed of Belle’s pace, or if he simply has trouble seeing clearly, overwhelmed with what he’s learned, surrounded by his father’s men.

His father really went and did it. Behind his back, he’d gone and signed his life away to some noble lady he’s never heard of. For what? A chance at securing a line of succession to Gautier?

He’s barely twenty-two years old. He’s hardly lived life as an heir of the house himself. He’s not ready to get married, much less to... to have a kid and start this Goddess damned cycle all over again.

Sylvain clutches at the saddlehorn, feeling sick. He doesn’t even know this person his father expects him to marry. He’s just supposed to get along with her? Spend time with her? Marry her? Love her? Knowing she and her family probably agreed to this, eager to get an in with a noble house with a crested heir on offer? Know that his crest is all he’s good for in her eyes, to elevate her and her family to some semblance of status?

What is he, chattel, to simply be given to the highest bidder?

He doesn’t want to get married.

Had he really pushed his father this far? He thought he’d been more subtle with his avoidance on the matter of marriage arrangements and match ups with potential ladies of good standing. Losing letters of proposal, getting caught with castle maids in the wrong places when visiting lords were expected to visit with their daughters, feigning illness on days he’s expected to greet an audience, and the last time he’d simply overstayed his time at the border instead of returning to the manor when ordered - he’d thought that had been a clever one, it’d really pissed off the last girl and her family - but apparently it hadn’t been clever enough.

He settles himself back on the saddle and Belle slows, her rushed canter slowing to a trot, then a quick walk.

“Milord,” one of the knights approaches from the side, “Do you need a rest?” He must have been riding a while, lost in his head, for them to ask.

Sylvain shakes his head absently, “Nah. We’ve barely started,” he gives a crooked grin and the man nods, his own steed veering off to give him back what little space he had.

His grin drops like a stone, and he focuses on moving forward, letting his horse carry the pace; a quick walk, so as not to push the limits of what his escort will allow - he knows his father gave them instruction to not let Sylvain travel too slowly.

His mind drifts.

If he gets married while they're at war, who would even come to his wedding?

Annette, maybe. Ingrid could probably beg some time off from the Kingsguard, but... she’s so dedicated to the job, she might not. Dedue wouldn’t leave Dimitri’s side, and Dimitri...

Dimitri wouldn’t be able to make it, unless Sylvain got married in Fhirdiad.

He can’t stomach the thought of a Fhirdiad wedding. Not to a woman he doesn’t even know.

And... if he had to get married to a woman like this, the one he’d want as his best man...

Sylvain laughs bitterly to himself.

Well that seals it, doesn’t it. He can’t get married, not while it’s impossible for Felix to attend.

His heart aches.

Felix would have hated this. Oh, he’d never have stood for it. He could never tolerate Sylvain’s dalliances with women, even as far back as when they were young teens when Sylvain first learned the fun of it: flirting, and fooling around. He’d only hated it more when Sylvain started philandering to his utmost, using women as much as they used him and feeding the ugly persona he’d built of himself at the academy.

But he’d hated it most when Sylvain’s meetings were arranged - by his father, his mother when she mustered the will to be involved - because those meetings didn’t give Sylvain the choice of who he was pursuing, to make his own mistakes.

An arranged marriage like this, with no warning, no prior meeting, no chance to even know the face of the woman his father has decided will be his wife... Sylvain doesn’t even know how Felix would react to learning about it.

It hurts, not knowing.

Another jab in his heart of him, the wounds building up every time he doesn’t know what Felix would have done.

Because Felix simply isn’t here.

Sylvain bites his lip, pushing that recurring well of emotion back down.

He doesn’t want to get married.

Each step Belle takes carries him closer to that inescapable fate. A fatal awareness sinking deep into his bones the closer his horse carries him to his family home. He could try to avoid staying in the manor - there’s time between his arrival and the arrival of the Jouberts - and he could run to the border in that time, pretend he’s being proactive in the defence of the northern border.

But his father had said it - he’d ensure, this time, that Sylvain follows through.

Sylvain knows his father. His will is unopposable. He’s been lenient to Sylvain, throughout his life, but his patience has limits. Ever since Miklan had... been removed from the house, that patience has gotten shorter with Sylvain, with no poorer comparison there to allow him the luxury of a longer leash. If there’s something the Margrave absolutely wants done by his son, he will ensure it happens.

It happened when Sylvain learned to fight with a lance. It happened when Sylvain officially received the relic as a true son of Gautier. It happened when Sylvain took to his maiden battle against Srengi forces in the north. It happened when his father left him the duties of Lord of the house when the war broke out and the Margrave was called to Fhirdiad to provide guidance as a warlord of the roundtable.

And it’s happening now, with Sylvain travelling to meet his future wife.

Sylvain likes to believe he has choices; that there are things he likes and gets to choose to pursue. Every year, it seems, the choices he has seem to dwindle, disappearing as his responsibilities mount, as time passes and he grows older, as his father grows more aware of his age.

It seems now, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he’s truly run out of choices, if he’s really had any at all.

He doesn’t want to get married.

He stops his horse, staring ahead.

The sky is darkening, the sun setting somewhere behind the dense cloud cover. Night arrives early, even on the cusp of spring, here in the northernmost reaches of Faerghus. How long has he travelled already? Several hours, blazing by, while he was lost in his head. At this time of year, there’s very little traffic, on the paths between Gautier and Fhirdiad, the roads still treacherous enough, menaced by the lingering threat of winter storms, to ward off travel by most folk.

If something happened to him and his people, nobody would know, for a long while.

“Lord Gautier,” the battalion leader asks, his horse sidling closer, “Is something the matter?” his voice sounds distant, though he’s right next to him.

Sylvain tilts his head. He feels blank, empty. He’s sitting on his horse but he feels like he’s floating at the same time, disconnected, as he squints into the blur of the tree line on the path ahead, “Nothing,” he murmurs absently, speaking without thinking, the words just falling from his mouth like stones, “Thought I saw something.”

One of the knights lights a torch.

Sylvain doesn’t know if there’s anything there, but it’s always a possibility. Bandits are rife in the region, especially on the borders between territories: gaps in the oversight of the governing lords close to the region where another lord takes over. The problems have only gotten worse, especially this far north, with many of the northern territories’ soldiers clustered closer to Fhirdiad to form the reserve army, and the leading lords of the territories - the Margrave in Gautier, the Duke in Fraldarius, the King himself in Blaiddyd - all called to Fhirdiad, preoccupied by the war.

A noble heir being escorted by a personal cadre of knights might be an attractive target. Sylvain’s certainly not carrying anything truly valuable, but with an escort like this, it could look like he is.

What if he died, right here? At the hands of a desperate collection of people, pushed to pillaging, robbery, in a time of great hardship?

Desperate times make for desperate people, after all.

Sylvain takes his lance in hand, hefting the weight of it in his grip.

The battalion surges to life around him, moving ahead of him, horses and the knights atop them rearranging into positions between him and the potential threat.

He honestly isn’t sure there is one.

Not ahead of them anyway.

“Who goes there?” one of the knights at the front calls, his horse moving forward, torch lighting the way.

The rest of the battalion follow, weapons drawn, eyes peeled for any threat.

Sylvain stays still where he is. Seated on his saddle, Belle snorting under him, holding position, sedate, as they move ahead of him.

He’s not going to get married.

That’s a choice he’s making right now. He’s decided.

How many years, he’s deftly avoided matches and arranged meetings: the grasping hands of girls and women seeking his crest, his status, his name; offering their hearts, their bodies, their empty promises? And now his father has secured a match he has no choice but to accept and he’s not even going to try to dodge it?

‘ _Come on now, Sylvain,_ ’ a voice asks - he can just make it out, in the back of his head, somewhere, - ‘ _is that all you’ve got?_ ’

He huffs, stifling a mad little sound of amusement.

There are no bandits, not on this stretch of road at least. It’s getting hard to see, but he’s fairly sure of it.

He’s not going to die today. Unlucky, he supposes. That would have solved the problem pretty cleanly.

Then again, he doesn’t want to die yet, he thinks. He’s not sure, but there’s still things he wants to do. People he wants to see.

If going to Gautier will seal the final nail in his coffin, lock him on an empty path to an empty marriage, a lifelong duty to a pointless war, a cold death in the north, facing away from the heart of Fódlan...

Then he simply will not go to Gautier at all.

He raises the Lance.

The relic comes alive in his grasp, the red light of its malevolent crest stone rippling through the pointed head, shaking its spines to life.

He can feel it: the power of his awful crest, the _gift_ the Goddess presented to his bloodline, passed down from Gautier to Gautier until now, where it simmers in his blood. A poison that’s been gnawing on his soul, its mere presence tainting his life, rotting the options he’s meant to have as a man until he’s left only one path under his father’s eye, reduced to a puppet on tangled strings.

The rush of the crest is both overwhelming and numbing, all at once.

If this is the life he’s fated to have, he doesn’t want it. He’ll do anything to avoid it. He may fear his father, but he fears this empty future more.

If going to Gautier will seal his fate for eternity, then he simply will not go.

If these men are here to force him, then he will ensure they won’t get that chance.

If he can’t run, the only option he has is to fight.

He stares blankly at the backs of the knights before him, as the crest flares to life above him, the glow of his house’s symbol bursting forth in a blaze of light.

Then he tightens his grip on the Lance of Ruin

and swings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤔🤔🤔


	7. Double Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Hubert argue about Sylvain's fate. Felix is just s... He is just standing here.

**Harpstring Moon  
** **1183**  
 **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

“The only thing that’s clear is that Gautier is an idiot. Everything else remains questionable.”

Felix closes his eyes and breathes out a frustrated breath of air from his position, leaning against the door, biting his tongue. Talking back thoughtlessly against Hubert isn’t going to do much to help Sylvain. Still, it grates to listen to him when it’s clear he’d rather minimize risk and damn the man they’re discussing regardless of his intentions, rather than take a chance that maybe he’s harmless.

Which he is, as far as Felix is concerned.

Sylvain looked... haggard. Tired. Felix doesn’t know how else to describe it. Walking into the room had been a shock - he hadn’t known what to expect when he mustered the determination to walk in before he lost his nerve. Sylvain looked unkempt, a strange look for him - he always used to put a lot of care into his appearance. Felix doubts the war alone is the cause because he’d looked so self-conscious about it. Maybe he doesn’t have a mirror wherever he’s shut away. He’d only looked worse, demoralized, answering questions when Felix pressed.

Still, as much things change, a lot remains familiar. Sylvain has always been infuriatingly tall and he’s grown taller, filled out his beanpole frame, a fact that Felix became acutely aware of when he succumbed to the hug Sylvain was clearly so desperate to give. His presence felt the same: the warmth of his grasp, the shape of his face, his smiles when he mustered them, and the brightness in his eyes.

Seeing him felt like a breath of fresh air after a long time moving through a field of smoke.

Following his talk with Sylvain, the imperial guard at the door had ushered Felix into the room next door - a better furnished, overall more comforting looking space - where Ferdinand and Hubert waited to no doubt to discuss what they’d concluded from the conversation and determine next steps in Sylvain’s fate.

Hubert and Ferdinand allowed him to speak with Sylvain alone but he’s under no illusions it was a private conversation. So long as Hubert considers potential information important to his work or decision making, he will take the steps necessary to hear as much as he can first hand. Felix is no stranger to his eavesdropping. The walls may be stone but it doesn’t mean they fully block sound, nor does it mean there aren’t ways to listen in around it. Felix can’t help but feel slightly guilty he let Sylvain talk while knowing there was a high likelihood of Hubert listening to every word.

Ferdinand at least had the heart to look guilty when Felix walked in. Hubert von Vestra has no such shame.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand chastises, “You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss him. Regardless of his actual willingness to formally side with the Empire, the fact remains he is here and he cannot return to the Kingdom. There is room to work with Sylvain. This is an opportunity.”

Felix tips his head back and glares at the ceiling. The two of them have been debating for a while. He isn’t sure how long it’s been since he left Sylvain in the small office they put him in. It feels like no time at all and at the same time like an unbearable amount of time has passed.

He’s never been personally privy to the legendary arguments between von Aegir and von Vestra, not even as a student back in the academy year, uninterested as he was in their interpersonal conflicts and petty sniping. Now bearing witness to it in action, he understands the trial it is to be party to one such back and forth. If he could leave he would, but he knows if he does, it could cost Sylvain his life.

So he stays and listens and answers when addressed, trying to take in everything important while filtering out the combative verbal padding.

“A desperate man makes desperate choices,” Hubert argues from where he’s seated, chair tilted away from the desk to face his counterpart as Ferdinand paces around. Their pot of tea has already been drained, Ferdinand has not yet called for another. “At the least, it’s clear from what he did on his interrupted trip to Gautier that he’s already susceptible to acting without thinking. If what he said is true, I’m tempted to say he’s not sound of mind. Who’s to say he won’t have a sudden change of heart and make an equally destructive decision here in a bid to regain favour with his old allies in the Kingdom?”

“Then don’t give him his relic,” Ferdinand retorts, “Honestly, Hubert, you’re acting like there aren’t a variety of ways to mitigate risk.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ferdinand,” Hubert snarls, “You know as well as I do there are multiple ways a man given free reign of a military fort can cause irreparable damage even without a weapon, especially one such stronghold so close to the battle lines.”

“Restriction from his house relic, surveillance of his movements, forbidding his entry to certain parts of the monastery,” Ferdinand lists, gesturing sharply with his hand to highlight his arguments, “All of these are options we can undertake in the meanwhile. A trial period, Hubert, to determine the level of his cooperation.”

“And how long do you propose we commit these resources to Gautier, to follow him around as you give him freedom to wander Garreg Mach?” Hubert demands in response, “You can’t be telling me you have the personal luxury of ensuring it will be exacting to the appropriate standards, being in the position of leadership you are in to handle affairs for the entire monastery.”

“One moon, three moons, six moons,” Ferdinand argues, a generous scale to demonstrate his willingness to try, Felix notices with mild surprise, “As long as needed Hubert. I know how the monastery works, Edelgard gave me charge of Garreg Mach, I have been the commander present for almost two years, I am aware of what resources are available at my disposal.”

“Lady Edelgard trusted you with the responsibility to hold Garreg Mach and keep the forces she entrusted you safe under her command,” Hubert fires back, narrowing his eyes, “You would do well to remember what your priorities are as commander of this stronghold.”

“You know I am capable, Hubert,” Ferdinand responds, insulted, “Do not attack me to distract from the topic at hand.”

“A determined man will simply wait his restrictions out, Ferdinand,” Hubert retorts immediately, without taking even a moment to acknowledge his misstep, “Even Gautier is capable of the patience to wait until an opportune moment after you’ve determined his... trustworthiness to spring the trap.”

Felix bites his lip. Capable of patience, Sylvain definitely is. Capable of concocting a whole new foolhardy plan to dismantle Garreg Mach from the inside out without any support from the Kingdom or the Church is a whole other question.

All but impossible, Felix knows. Looking at Sylvain, speaking with him, seeing the way he acted in the room... he’d never muster it. He doesn’t have the malicious will.

“Even if Sylvain decided suddenly to orchestrate an attack on Garreg Mach, what would he accomplish, Hubert?” Ferdinand continues.

“The untimely death of our allies and the loss of a key strategic stronghold in the war,” Hubert responds flatly.

“And where would he go after, Hubert?” Ferdinand retorts, frustrated, “Taking Garreg Mach does not win the Kingdom the war.”

“I’m sure he could make a case to return to the Kingdom in exchange for such an act,” Hubert dismisses, “The Church would be very pleased to have their monastery back in their hands and will tell the masses the Goddess has blessed them with good fortune so they can spread their lies across the land anew. House Gautier would welcome their only crested heir back with open arms.”

Felix snorts.

Ferdinand glances over to him, gesturing expectantly, “Felix?”

“The boar would have him killed,” he states, certain.

Ferdinand turns back to Hubert with a quirk of his eyebrow, “There we go,” he says pointedly, a wholly unnecessary verbal dig at the man seated before him.

“You stated yourself the importance of the Gautier heir to his house, Fraldarius,” Hubert addresses him directly, ignoring Ferdinand entirely, “Gautier is the _only_ crested heir of his house, and of all the houses in the Kingdom, Gautier needs him to remain relevant. Why would they kill him?”

“Faerghus never forgives.” Felix says, firmly, “As far as the Kingdom’s concerned, if they know he’s here, and I’m sure they do now, he’s betrayed them. Even the necessity of his crest for the survival of his house would never erase the shame of his betrayal of his Kingdom. Even if he repented by dealing a blow to the enemies of the Kingdom. Faerghus would rather see the end of Gautier as a house than welcome a traitor back with open hands.”

Margrave Gautier may be a man who openly places great importance on the crest in Sylvain’s blood, willing to go to great lengths to ensure his line of succession is secured in a fashion to guarantee the house’s power, but he’s still a lord of Faerghus in the end. The more powerful the house, the more they are beholden to the their King, their honour, and their code. Gautier is second only to Fraldarius. They’re not so different in how they would respond to a traitor from their house.

Felix knows better than anyone.

Hubert gives a noise of derision, “How depraved.”

Felix looks away.

How depraved indeed.

As if Hubert von Vestra has room to talk. If somebody betrayed the Emperor, no act of repentance would forgive them their sins to the Empire even if they turned around and went back. Felix may be ignorant of much of the Empire’s politicking, but even he knows what Edelgard did to the ministers who betrayed her father after her coronation. No turncoat gets to turn twice.

“So he can’t return to the Kingdom,” Hubert concedes, “It doesn’t rule out the possibility of him leaking information to the Kingdom in an act of self-destruction.”

“Hubert, be reasonable,” Ferdinand says, a tone of exasperation bleeding into his voice.

“It’s a possibility I can’t discount,” Hubert says critically, “You heard him, Ferdinand.”

“I did not,” Ferdinand denies, crossing his arms, “I respect boundaries.”

So Ferdinand didn’t actively eavesdrop after all. How honourable of him.

“He approached Garreg Mach with no regard for his own life,” Hubert recounts, rendering Ferdinand's stubborn refusal to eavesdrop useless after all, “As far as he was concerned, so long as he could see Fraldarius here, he could die satisfied.”

Felix clenches a fist, grinding his knuckles into the meat of his arm. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. It’s foolish of Sylvain to decide to pursue only his goal to see Felix, after his explosive act in the north. Felix isn’t worth all the effort Sylvain put in to see him.

His chest aches.

“Keeping him locked up isn’t going to improve his state of mind, Hubert,” Ferdinand argues. Appealing to emotion, empathy? Probably a poor strategy against Hubert in an argument, “Releasing him with limited privileges would reduce the risk of him committing acts of self-destruction that may hurt our position here at Garreg Mach. In fact, giving him more freedoms may incentivize his cooperation fully.”

“His state of mind is not my concern.”

Exactly as expected.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand huffs, standing in front of the other man, “What is your biggest concern with Sylvain? I just don’t understand your obstinacy regarding this matter.”

Felix shifts where he stands. Finally, Ferdinand cuts to the chase. This whole farce could have been cut short at least a half hour.

“I don’t trust Gautier,” Hubert says cuttingly, right at the heart of the matter, “Nothing he has said or done has made me inclined to believe he is capable of switching sides productively. He has never expressed doubt regarding the Kingdom or the Church. His limited capacity to support the vision of Lady Edelgard does not persuade me he is capable of fighting on this side in earnest and his expressed desire to join the Empire has been confessed to be a falsehood. We’ve barely even discussed the matter that is his close friendship with the _King_. I don’t tolerate unacceptable risk and he has unacceptable risk written all over him.”

Ferdinand meets his gaze evenly, in no way intimidated by his sharp arguments, the flash of his amber eyes, “I believe we should give him a chance.”

“So we are at an impasse,” Hubert concludes.

Felix heaves a sigh.

“Something to say, Fraldarius?” Hubert snipes, just as frustrated not to have a conclusion.

Nothing Felix says will be heeded. He can try to keep his words rational but as far as Hubert’s concerned he’s probably considered emotionally compromised. His opinion won’t have any bearing.

But he knows somebody who might have an interest, whose opinion has great weight for everyone in the room.

“...What’s Edelgard’s opinion?” Felix asks quietly.

There’s a silence as both imperial leaders stare at him.

It’s a gamble, involving the emperor. A suggestion neither Ferdinand nor Hubert would voice during their argument, dancing around the propriety of involving her in a matter concerning a former classmate when she’s the literal leader of the Empire, but Felix has no such compunctions. He knows Edelgard has spoken with Sylvain in the past, he knows she has an interest in keeping advantages in the war. If Sylvain is so important an asset they can’t let him leave, she should get a say on the matter.

Felix has no way of knowing with absolute certainty if she’d lean on the side of eliminating a threat before it can pose a real danger or if she’d lean on the side of providing a chance for Sylvain to prove himself, but he feels she’d want to gain a living asset over killing a former enemy. It’s a gut feeling.

She gave him a chance, didn’t she, despite knowing how deep the ties to the Kingdom he had? Sylvain isn’t so different.

“Edelgard,” Ferdinand echoes, considering.

Hubert remains conspicuously silent.

“Yes,” Felix responds, shrugging as he settles more comfortably against the door he’s leaning on, “Clearly you two don’t agree,” he says, gesturing between the two of them, “You know what I think, but my opinion doesn’t matter. Sylvain’s a crested noble heir with a relic. His position in the war is significant if he’s alive. You said the balance of relics across battle lines could shift the tide of war. It’s a waste to kill him, and you know it.”

Ferdinand’s brown-eyed gaze darts to Hubert. Hubert sits in stony silence and glares at Felix.

“So, what does the Emperor think?” Felix asks, a final question.

“Lady Edelgard has better things to do than concern herself with this trifle,” Hubert dismisses, looking aside.

“Hold on, Hubert,” Ferdinand interjects, turning to face him fully, “Felix has a point.”

Hubert fumes, “Ferdinand.”

“For all your trepidation, you must be aware of the opportunities we have should Sylvain be allowed to at least remain as a guest of the Empire, here at Garreg Mach,” Ferdinand continues, a second wind pushing the sails of his arguments, “Yes, his presence is a risk, however, his presence also sends a message to the Kingdom and the Alliance. The Gautier name carries a weight: to have the heir on our side, in whatever capacity, shows that not only that we are welcoming, or perhaps merciful, to those who join our side, but also that another major noble heir now supports our cause. Where a noble goes, Hubert, people inevitably follow.”

Hubert crosses his arms but he doesn’t interrupt. Felix thinks he’s actually listening.

“You are always complaining you are losing spies, Hubert,” Ferdinand mentions lightly, “I may not be familiar with the intricacies of your work, but even I know turncoats make exemplary spies. To kill the Gautier heir is one thing. To welcome him sends the message I feel is much more demoralizing to the Kingdom in the long run than simply having him killed.”

The dark bishop stares evenly back.

“If you will not consider it, at the least I believe you should approach Edelgard with the arguments we’ve presented today so she can weigh in on the decision,” Ferdinand says, at last, pulling back, done with debate, “I don’t believe she would be very pleased to learn we had Sylvain killed when our possibility of cooperation presented unique opportunity for the benefit of the Empire.”

Hubert sighs

He contemplates it for a long excruciating moment, arms crossed, finger tapping on his arm.

Then he grimaces, looking between the two of them, “Very well.”

An easy agreement. Felix doesn’t know how to read into that.

“I will consult with Lady Edelgard,” he declares, standing up, “She is aware of Gautier’s presence here at Garreg Mach but not the details. She entrusted the matter to me, but if you are so convinced of the... opportunities Gautier’s continued existence provides the Empire then I will speak with Lady Edelgard regarding this.”

Ferdinand beams, happy to come to an accord even if the discussion could not come to a clean end, “Thank you, Hubert.”

Under the full power of Ferdinand’s grin, Hubert immediately turns away, “I will speak with her tonight,” he says, and heads to the door.

“...Are you sure, Hubert?” Ferdinand asks, smile shifting to a look of concern.

If Hubert expects to speak with Edelgard tonight, it means he intends to use warp magic to leave immediately. Felix isn’t in any way educated on the intricacies of that branch of magic but even he knows how taxing the spell can be, especially across such a distance to make it to Enbarr.

Hubert is a very proficient dark bishop; it doesn’t mean the spell won’t be taxing on him.

“I’d rather this matter be dealt with sooner rather than later,” he replies impatiently, “This has dragged on long enough.”

On that, Felix can agree. Sylvain has been in Garreg Mach for two weeks. Even with his necessities addressed, it’s only a matter of time for this to poorly impact his health, if it hasn’t already. If it were up to him, Sylvain would at the very least have been given a room with windows and the opportunity to walk around under heavy escort.

“Very well,” Ferdinand acknowledges, continuing to frown in concern, “Then I suppose you will return tomorrow,”

“Ideally, yes,” Hubert responds, approaching the door, “This discussion is tabled for now. I’ll go at once.”

Felix pushes himself off the door, moving aside to allow Hubert to leave.

Hubert stops in front of the door, turning to face him, “Just so I convey everything to Lady Edelgard as accurately as possible, Fraldarius.”

Felix meets his steady gaze, “...What.”

“What is your final opinion, as the one closest to Gautier, regarding the risk of allowing him free?”

“Sylvain won’t endanger Garreg Mach,” Felix responds impatiently, “Not intentionally and not...” he hesitates, “Not so long as I’m here. He’s a risk, but not as big as you seem to think he is. He’s not as complicated as he tries to make himself out to be. He deserves a chance. Given enough time... he would be a valuable ally.”

Hubert nods, once, “Anything else?”

Felix takes a breath, steadying himself, “...If you choose to kill him,” he says unwaveringly, staring unflinchingly at the other man’s face, “I can’t guarantee I can continue to fight for you.”

An ultimatum.

As much as his gut tells him Edelgard is inclined to give Sylvain a chance, he doesn’t know if she really will. It’s been a long time since he saw her last. Her visits to Garreg Mach have dwindled to once or twice a year, and his own duties mean he hasn’t spoken to her for most of the war. People change; he sees it every day when he takes rare moments to reflect on the people around him.

She could err on the same side of caution as Hubert, with how close they are.

If the empire kills Sylvain in such a way, disregarding his efforts to surrender himself and his relic so peacefully to the Empire... Felix doesn’t know if he could continue fighting in earnest for their goals. An empire that will not extend a hand to a man so desperate he’s all but thrown himself prostrate at their door, because of where he came from, would not be an empire he could believe in anymore.

If they kill Sylvain in such a way after their actions to keep him alive gave him the hope they’d let him join them... Felix would...

He would...

“Felix,” Ferdinand says gently.

Felix doesn’t look at him, keeping his gaze locked firmly with Hubert’s.

“I see,” the dark bishop nods, “I will take that into account,” he says in acknowledgement, then opens the door and sweeps out without a goodbye.

Felix looks away and crosses his arms, “Hmph.”

Ferdinand moves to stand beside him, standing straight, hands behind his back, watching him expectantly.

“...What?” Felix asks, shifting his stance, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“Nothing,” Ferdinand says agreeably, “I just wanted to say: I appreciate your honesty.”

Felix hunches his shoulders and rolls his eyes, “Whatever,” he mutters.

At least Ferdinand’s on his side. He’s not sure how he’d react if Felix just left the army, should the situation come to pass, but he can be certain he wouldn’t hunt him down.

“Your opinion does matter, you know, Felix,” Ferdinand says, pulling him from his dark thoughts, “If it didn’t, Hubert wouldn’t have allowed you to stay for the discussion.”

Felix hums in acknowledgement, feeling awkward suddenly at the earnest statement Ferdinand just lays out. No matter how often Ferdinand says things, to make him feel he belongs, he never feels any less awkward when he hears it.

“Would you like to walk with me?” the other man offers, as he steps out the door, “To bring Sylvain back to his room.”

“No,” Felix responds. He’s starting to feel restless again. He’s had his time with Sylvain, he needs time apart to think, decompress, reflect on what they shared in the room, “Just... tell him I’ll see him.”

Ferdinand reaches out, resting a gentle hand on his forearm in a comforting gesture, “I’m sure everything will be fine, Felix,” he says reassuringly.

Felix shakes his head, tugging his arm away, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ferdinand,” he says, and strides off.

He needs a distraction.

**~o.O.o~**

Felix spends several hours challenging a tournament’s worth of imperial swordsmen to practice bouts on the monastery training grounds. It works up a sweat, and one or two swordmasters even pose a decent challenge to keep him alert, pushing him to pull out a few of the more unorthodox techniques in his repertoire to assure a clean win.

One of his opponents approaches him after, to discuss and share techniques, and Felix humours him, pleased to find another dedicated swordsman eager to hone their own art. They end up spending some time talking, practice swords in hand to demonstrate moves and footwork to each other when the conversation drifts in that direction. The other swordsman offers to continue the conversation over dinner but Felix declines, not feeling especially hungry, and reluctant to eat in the crowded dining hall.

After securing the promise of a future spar instead, he leaves, washes up at the bathhouse, and then returns to his room, pulling out his swords to do his routine maintenance routine, cleaning and oiling the blades. When he deems the hour late enough, he makes a quick trip to the dining hall to grab a late meal before they close the doors. One of the dining staff ladies gives him a disapproving look when she hands him the plate and makes sure to shovel an extra helping of vegetables on the plate, to his consternation, before making him promise to return the plate in the morning.

He eats in his room, finishing whatever equipment upkeep while he chews on his meal, and stomachs the vegetables to avoid having to leave his room to toss them. Once he’s out of weapons to clean, he stares at the unfinished letter he’s still trying to compose to Mercedes, mind running in circles, before he gives that up and decides it’s late enough to go to bed, undergoing his night time routine before he changes into his nightclothes and tries to go to sleep.

He can’t sleep.

Despite several hours on the training grounds, his body feeling the ache of a good workout, he isn’t tired. His brain is incapable of resting even after several attempts to will himself to sleep, counting breaths, reciting plans, emptying his mind. His thoughts buzz constantly, every errant sound a distraction, loud enough to keep him awake and alert.

Scowling irritably, Felix rolls onto his front, punches his pillow once, and flops down on top of it, clutching at it as he struggles to find a comfortable position. He knows exactly why he can’t sleep, but it’s not a solvable problem.

He’s worried. The immediacy of Sylvain’s fate is an anxious undercurrent to his thoughts. He knew eventually they’d decide what to do with him but today’s discussion has abruptly put a deadline on it. In the moment he’d thought making the gamble to involve Edelgard would better Sylvain’s chances in the face of Hubert’s arguments to keep him imprisoned indefinitely or have him killed. Now, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts except for sleep, which eludes him, he’s starting to wonder if it was a bad call.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Emperor Edelgard. It’s that he doesn’t know her well.

After one year at the academy and two years at war under her banner, Felix trusts Edelgard’s level head, her goals, and her vision. When she laid out her reasons for her war to the Black Eagles, Felix had found her vision compelling, agreed with her criticisms and desire to remove certain structures and systems, and came to believe her word about what was necessary to see her vision come to pass. Having just seen the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros turn into a giant dragon also aided the certainty of his own decisions, admittedly. Once the boar and the Kingdom he presided over fell in line with the Church without question, as far as Felix was concerned, his battle lines were clearly defined.

Since the war began and he began to fight on her side, Edelgard has proven her prowess as a general and her ability as an Emperor. Felix trusts her decisions in battle, her plans of attack, and her strategic vision in coordinating her strikes against her foes.

As a friend, Felix isn’t sure he knows enough about Edelgard to truly knows how she thinks. He can count on one hand the number of conversations he’s had with her that haven’t concerned their duties as students or allies in war.

Given Sylvain’s position, who he is, and the relic he brought with him, Felix can make a fairly good guess as to what Edelgard would decide regarding Sylvain’s fate from a strategic point of view, based on her position as the Emperor. But so long as he doesn’t know her well enough as a person, he can never be sure of how she will make her decisions.

It’s this specific uncertainty that is keeping him up, making him restless.

Felix sighs heavily, burying himself under the covers.

Then, of course, there’s the matter of the ultimatum he gave Hubert.

Perhaps it was foolish, but in trying to help Sylvain he’s tied his fate to him with his declaration. If... if the Empire decide Sylvain isn’t worth the risk, Felix knows he wouldn’t be able to stay.

He doubled down on a gamble, as it were. If the Empire kills Sylvain in this manner, they will also lose Felix. After two years, he knows his worth to the Empire, and he knows it’s valuable enough for both Edelgard and Hubert, considering the freedom he’s given in battle as well as their fairly recent decision to remove him from missions to Faerghus for his safety since his last disastrous mission in Charon. At first he’d been incensed, but the Emperor had spoken with him personally as he recovered from his injuries, to explain they were doing so, so long as he remained a high priority Kingdom target, among other reasons.

If Sylvain’s strategic utility as a man of his title, in his position, isn’t enough to save his life, Felix has to trust his ultimatum to Hubert, and by extension Edelgard, has to be enough to push the decision over the line.

He has to believe it’s enough.

It’s this thought that he dwells on, staring up at the dark ceiling in his room for many hours into the night.

**~o.O.o~**

When Felix wakes up, he’s exhausted.

It’s too early to be awake, the early dawn glow just arriving to light the sky deep blue, providing just enough ambient light through his window to see in the dark of his room. Knowing how late his thoughts kept him up before sleep finally took him, there’s no way he’s well rested.

He definitely doesn’t _feel_ well rested.

He lies there listlessly for an indeterminate amount of time, unsure if he wants to try to snatch a few more fleeting glimpses of sleep or if he should just get up. When it’s light enough, through his window, to suggest the sun has risen properly, he decides it’s not worth trying to fall asleep again and forces himself to get up.

Felix moves through his morning routine mechanically, working through a vague but persistent tiredness as he makes himself half-presentable, pinning up his hair where it fails to be held up with the band holding up his ponytail, before spending an inordinate length of time splashing cold water on his face to bring some degree of alertness to his mind.

It works. Sort of.

He changes swiftly into his usual outfit, secures his sword belt, affixes his swords to his side, and walks out of the dormitories to find something to do.

It’s too early for the dining hall’s doors to be open yet, so with nothing better to do he simply wanders, walking aimlessly through the monastery in the cool spring air.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he does it for, cutting through courtyards, walking along the stone paths, frowning and ignoring offhand greetings from the few imperial troops he passes by as he makes his way from training grounds to graveyard to knights hall to front gate to greenhouse and back to the training grounds again.

He’s on his third pass by the knights’ hall when he’s interrupted by an imperial soldier, brave enough to step in his path and call for his attention directly. Most of them usually don’t get in his way, when they have something to say.

“Lord Fraldarius,” she says, deferentially but clearly.

Felix’s brow turns down in annoyance, he hates when they call him that, “Felix,” he corrects, instead of greeting her.

“Lord Felix,” she amends, and Felix’s scowl only deepens, “Commander von Aegir would see you in the entrance hall.”

“Fine,” Felix responds curtly, and turns towards the reception hall, leaving without dismissing her.

Ferdinand is standing on the second level of the entrance hall at the top of the stairs, looking down, his back to Felix when he approaches.

“Good morning,” the imperial commander of Garreg Mach greets, when Felix strides up to stand beside him, crossing his arms. He looks chipper, refreshed, awake. Felix glances past him at the open door to the dining hall. It looks like it’s the middle of the breakfast hour. His stomach gives a lurch, but it’s not one of hunger.

“A bit early, isn’t it,” Felix mutters, deadpan.

“Hubert informed me he would return by this time,” Ferdinand responds simply, “He’s generally punctual and I thought you’d prefer we didn’t waste time, not to mention Sylvain as well.”

“Hm,” Felix responds, and turns his head, looking down the staircase as the gatekeeper and another imperial soldier open the grand double doors of the entrance hall for the day.

“You look tired,” Ferdinand remarks, a bit of morning small talk. Felix would rather he not.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Felix growls back, shifting his weight.

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, understanding, “Would a cup of tea help?”

His solution is always tea. “No,” Felix responds, curt.

“I’ve been told coffee can help improve alertness,” Ferdinand tries, and Felix suppresses a sigh. He must look really tired, “It’s foul, as a drink, but...”

“Not interested.”

For a moment Ferdinand just watches him, an unreadable expression on his face. Felix doesn’t try to interpret it.

“I’ll be fine,” Felix grumbles reluctantly, when Ferdinand doesn’t relent in his staring, “Let’s just... get this over with.”

There’s a flash of purple light on the lower level of the entrance hall, and an imperial soldier jumps aside in shock before they snap to attention.

Hubert’s arrival, with impeccable timing.

The dark bishop doesn’t look any worse for wear, even having cast and undergone two incredibly long range warp spells in less than twenty four hours. Though it’s hard to tell, what with his naturally sunken eyes and with his hair constantly obscuring part of his face.

He sneers as if there’s nothing affecting him, anyway.

“Eager aren’t you,” Hubert greets, when he finishes climbing the stairs to the landing.

“Sooner rather than later, I believe, were your words,” Ferdinand responds easily with a nod back.

Hubert almost rolls his eyes. He doesn’t but it’s a near thing.

“Well, out with it,” Felix snaps, impatient.

Hubert levels him with a narrowed gaze, but complies, walking slowly towards the reception hall, prompting Ferdinand and Felix to follow, “Lady Edelgard has expressed... her willingness to give Gautier a chance to prove he’s not a threat,” he says neutrally, and an uncomfortable vice on Felix’s gut loosens just enough to let him breathe easier, “Despite his claims to want to join the empire when he approached the monastery turning out not to be genuine, she believes there is sufficient evidence he can be... swayed to our side in earnest.”

“How astute,” Ferdinand remarks. Felix doesn’t let himself react to that. Ferdinand doesn’t sound smug so he shouldn’t assume he’s being smug.

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, Ferdinand,” Hubert growls, clearly thinking the worst anyway, “Sometimes, on occasion your opinions coincide with Lady Edelgard’s own.”

“That’s not what I meant, Hubert,” Ferdinand responds lightly.

“Of course,” Hubert continues, gaze shifting with intent away from Ferdinand to Felix instead, “There’s also the strategic matter of hosting the Gautier heir as an ‘honoured guest’ at Garreg Mach. Even if he doesn’t join our troops in battle, which he will _not_ be allowed to do anyway, given how little he can be trusted, his being here provides advantages that Lady Edelgard finds compelling.”

“So you’ll let him out,” Felix summarizes the most important point of the matter as they cross the exterior passage from entrance hall to reception all of the main building.

“With conditions,” Hubert says sharply, as if Felix wasn’t fully aware there would be a leash.

“Which are?” Felix asks.

Hubert stops walking, stopping in the center of the hall to face Ferdinand and Felix properly, “I would rather not have to repeat myself, so if I’m going to inform Gautier of his conditions of release within Garreg Mach anyway, we might as well do it with him present.”

Ferdinand glances to the end of the hall then back to Hubert, “Shall we go... down then?” he asks.

“No,” Hubert responds, crossing his arms, “Have him brought to your office on the second floor, Ferdinand. I don’t need to see the mess he’s no doubt made of his room.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand agrees, and turns away to find an imperial soldier to give orders before he decides better of it and turns back to the dark bishop, “You look exhausted, Hubert,” he remarks.

“Coffee, Ferdinand,” Hubert responds without looking at him, turning towards the end of the hall to the stairwell leading upstairs. It’s worded like an order but sounds like a request.

“I’ll have a cup brought up,” Ferdinand responds, and strides off.

“Fraldarius,” Hubert prompts, and starts walking.

Felix rolls his eyes and follows.

**~o.O.o~**

As soon as they reach Ferdinand’s main office, Hubert takes a seat in the chair behind the desk, appropriating Ferdinand’s seat, and instantly plants his elbows on the table, interlacing his hands before his face before closing his eyes.

Felix takes up a position to the side, leaning against the blank wall on the left behind the chair they’re likely to put Sylvain in, once he’s walked in. Hubert doesn’t look inclined to speak, which is perfectly fine with Felix, so he crosses his arms, tips his head down to glare at the floor, and waits.

Hubert’s coffee arrives first, delivered by what looks like a nervous looking squire. Hubert doesn’t react, so when the teen looks over frantically at Felix, he tips his head towards the door in dismissal and the squire all but flees the room as fast as he can. Once he’s gone and the door shuts behind him, Hubert opens his eyes, takes a hold of the cup, savours the scent of his drink, then takes a sip.

Once he sets his cup back down, Ferdinand walks in with Sylvain in tow.

Sylvain sees Hubert first, making a comically disgruntled face when Hubert glares back, before his gaze jumps to Felix standing at the side and his countenance instantly brightens. Felix shifts his stance, looking away, cheeks warming at his stupidly honest shift in expression.

“It is way too early for this,” Sylvain remarks, as Ferdinand leads him over to the chair by the table, letting him sit before he rounds the desk to Hubert’s side.

Nobody responds to that. They can all acknowledge today has started at far earlier an hour than anyone wanted, but voicing it seems like asking for trouble.

“Well,” Sylvain says when everyone looks settled, “If you’re all gathered here it must be big news. So, what’s the verdict then? Eternal imprisonment? Death? Should I write my last will and testament?”

He’s nervous, babbling.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, aiming for ‘reassuring’ and probably hitting ‘scolding’ instead.

Sylvain falls quiet, fidgeting with his hands.

“As of today, you are going to be released from your room, to allow you free roam within the confines of Garreg Mach,” Hubert says flatly.

Sylvain just stares at him

Hubert continues when Sylvain doesn’t look inclined to say anything, “The terms of your release are as follows--”

“You’re actually letting me out,” Sylvain blurts out.

Hubert takes a frustrated breath, already exasperated with Sylvain on his first interruption, “If it were solely up to me, you’d never see the sun again,” he grumbles, “But I’ve been... persuaded... to consider giving you a chance. A living ally is better than a dead risk, so I’m being told.”

Sylvain cracks a sardonic grin, “Wow, I can’t believe Ferdinand convinced you.”

“Good, because he didn’t,” Hubert snaps, as Ferdinand tries and fails to hold back a smile behind him, “You have Lady Edelgard to thank for your reprieve. You ought to tread carefully so as not to waste this gift.”

“Sure,” Sylvain agrees easily, relaxing in his seat now that he knows his fate is a favourable one, “I’ll send Her Majesty a gift basket and everything. She’ll know _exactly_ how thankful I am.”

Felix kicks his chair lightly for being cheeky, “What are the conditions, Hubert,” he says as Sylvain glances back and gives him a grin.

Hubert narrows his eyes but responds, “...Lady Edelgard is willing to give you... a chance, to prove you are willing to cooperate. Given your... circumstances, it’s clear you cannot return to the Kingdom, however, your presence in the Empire provides unique opportunities we cannot ignore.”

“All.. right?” Sylvain asks, unsure of what he’s trying to say.

“So, under Ferdinand’s supervision, given his leadership role here at Garreg Mach, we are... willing to allow you the freedom to stay in and to roam throughout the monastery, provided you follow a number of rules.”

Sylvain nods slowly, “Sounds reasonable so far.”

“You will not be permitted to leave Garreg Mach, however, you are given freedom to roam the monastery grounds to your heart’s content, except certain areas at Ferdinand’s discretion.”

Felix glances at Ferdinand, as does Sylvain. Hubert leans back and takes another sip of his coffee.

“Oh, er,” Ferdinand says, caught off guard at the sudden attention. “Well you certainly wouldn’t have free roam of this floor, nor any private rooms,” he says, gaze darting up and to the side as he considers the monastery in his mind, “The armoury is off limits, as are any levels of the main building below ground. I’m tempted to restrict you from the training grounds, but I imagine that would be a moot point considering...”

Everyone stares at Felix.

He glares back at Ferdinand.

“Yeah. Good call on that one,” Sylvain says with a straight face.

“Shut up, Sylvain,” Felix grumbles. He knows when he’s being made fun of.

“I imagine you’d do limited damage with blunted practice weapons anyway,” Ferdinand continues with a shake of his head, “I’ll have to do a quick survey of the monastery to determine the exact boundaries of where I’m comfortable allowing you to wander, Sylvain, but for now, I think this will suffice. I trust you not to push your luck, and if not, I imagine Felix knows when to stop you.”

Felix rolls his eyes but nods his assent.

“I would also advise you stay out of Abyss,” Ferdinand says, seriously.

Sylvain looks back at him and tilts his head in question. As far as Felix is aware, Sylvain has never set foot in the underground. He’s not sure if Sylvain’s even entirely aware of the sprawl of it or that it was a potential site he could wander to.

“Though it is inextricably tied to Garreg Mach, I’m afraid if you venture down there I cannot know how Yuri or their people will respond to your presence,” Ferdinand shakes his head, “I’d rather not have you killed in a misadventure in the underground after all this.”

That idea looks entirely too amusing to Hubert, who is smirking into his coffee.

“I’ll talk to Yuri,” Felix says, readjusting his lean against the wall.

Sylvain looks back at him, mouthing ‘Yuri?’ in question at him. Felix ignores him.

“Just so we know,” Felix clarifies, “I’d rather not have uncertainties on where Sylvain can go.”

“Cool,” Sylvain says, rolling with it, “So where will I be staying?”

“I believe your old rooms in the dormitories are still unoccupied, given the reluctance of my captains to venture into the second floor of the dormitories,” Ferdinand responds, leaning his hip against the desk, to Hubert’s chagrin, “You can stay there. I imagine you remember where they are.”

Sylvain grins easily, “How could I forget?”

Felix sighs.

“You will, of course,” Hubert interjects, “Not be given access to the Lance of Ruin.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, as if he just remembered the weapon of potential mass destruction Sylvain just brought with him through the gates of Garreg Mach without a fight, “An important point.”

“Great,” Sylvain says agreeably, leaning back in his seat and raising his arms to rest his hands behind his head, “You can keep it.”

Hubert raises an eyebrow. Ferdinand blinks.

“I’ve been looking for an excuse not to use that thing,” Sylvain elaborates, glancing to the side, “And this is the perfect one. Take it, von Vestra. I don’t want it.”

“Hm,” Hubert says neutrally, eyes narrowed, “As for your possessions...”

“They’ve already been thoroughly searched,” Ferdinand assures, mostly for Hubert’s sake, “Anything dangerous or suspicious has been confiscated. Everything else, I’ll have returned to you by the end of the day.”

“Great,” Sylvain responds deliberately, a tad loudly, “At least you’re not robbing me.”

“You will be watched,” Hubert speaks over him, eyes narrowed in intent, “At all hours in the monastery. I have eyes on you, Gautier, at all times to observe your behaviour. Every move you make in this monastery, I will know of. If you make even one step out of line that shows you have intentions of hurting Garreg Mach or the Empire in any capacity, whether it be directly at your hands or through the trade of information somehow to our enemies, I will have you eliminated.”

Sylvain stares back, serious, swallowing once, “...Noted.”

“So, he’s a prisoner of war,” Felix summarizes, impatiently. One with a far bigger cage than any prisoner really gets, but the inability to leave makes him a prisoner nonetheless.

“I’ve never known a prisoner of war to have so many... freedoms,” Hubert snarks back, “But I suppose yes, if you’re so focused on the fact he can’t leave the monastery grounds, you could say he is now officially a prisoner of war.”

Sylvain snorts, “What was I before?”

“A liability risk waiting to be dealt with,” Hubert sneers back.

Sylvain shrugs, “I’ll take it.”

“Sylvain,” Felix says with slight exasperation.

“I’ve been locked in a tiny room for two weeks with no sun and only eight volumes on reason to keep me company, Felix,” Sylvain responds, stretching out his arms, “Honestly, this sounds incredible by comparison. I’ll take the deal.”

“Good, because it wasn’t a deal,” Hubert says lowly, “You don’t exactly have an option not to, unless you’d actually prefer we kill you.”

Sylvain barks out a laugh.

Ferdinand makes a face but soldiers on nonetheless, “Then we’re agreed.”

“I suppose,” Hubert grumbles, “You’ll hear from me if anything comes up regarding this matter.” If he thinks of any further restrictions for Sylvain, he’s likely to let everyone present know about it, Felix is sure.

“Then welcome to Garreg Mach, Sylvain,” Ferdinand says agreeably, “Officially, I suppose.”

“Very funny, von Aegir,” Sylvain mutters as he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders.

“I suppose you’ll be with Felix the remainder of the day?” Ferdinand asks, glancing at Felix.

Sylvain tips his head back, to give him an expectant look with his head upside-down.

“Tsk, like I have a choice at this point,” Felix responds, glancing aside.

“Aw, come on,” Sylvain says, righting himself and twisting in his seat so he’s on it sideways, with one arm over the back, “It’ll be like old times. Besides, I heard you yesterday: _you_ said you-”

“Are we done here?” Felix cuts in loudly, before Sylvain can embarrass him in front of the man in charge of him and the right hand of the emperor he sometimes answers to.

“You can go,” Hubert dismisses with a significant look, “Ferdinand, a word.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand agrees, rounding the desk again to face Hubert properly across it, “I’ll see you later, Felix.”

Sylvain all but leaps to his feet and Felix follows as he heads for the door, “Ferdinand. Hubert.” he nods his head as he leaves, trying not to let Sylvain get too far from him too quickly.

“Oh thank the Goddess, get me out of here Felix,” Sylvain says in a rush once they’re in the hall, as Felix curses his long legs and chases him down when he makes a beeline for the stairs, “I need to be outside right now.”

Felix shoves him with one hand to point him in the correct direction as the door to the office shuts loudly down the hall behind them, “Ugh,” he says, “Come on, you oaf,” and takes him outside.

**~o.O.o~**

The first thing Sylvain does when he bursts out the side door of the main building to the pathway behind the old classrooms is stretch out his arms and yell at the top of his lungs.

After he’s done doing that, he makes a beeline for the center of the grassy space where the professors used to make students pull weeds as part of their chore rotations and flops down onto the mess of growing grass and weeds, starfishing on his back, staring at the sky.

Felix, to his great embarrassment, has to wave off two pairs of imperial patrolmen who rush over to investigate and one curious priest looking for an injured party who might need help as Sylvain lies on the grass and doesn’t move, completely oblivious to his plight.

When he’s done convincing the poor priest nobody is hurt and he can leave, he strides over to where Sylvain is lying and stands over him, arms crossed, only mildly upset at the spectacle Sylvain is making of himself.

Luckily the old Officers’ Academy classrooms are a low traffic area in the monastery in wartime. They never repurposed the space for anything and with no students to teach, the rooms have fallen more or less to disrepair. There won’t be that many more curious spectators to see whatever nonsense Sylvain is doing now.

“Are you done?” Felix asks, frowning down at him.

“No,” Sylvain says, obstinate, “I’m never going back inside again.”

“Tsk,” Felix straightens and looks away, glaring at the old Blue Lions classroom Sylvain has planted himself right in front of, “You must be hungry, at least,” he says.

Felix is, at least. Sylvain ought to be hungry; Felix knows he hasn’t eaten yet.

“Nah,” Sylvain replies, bringing his hands up to rest his head on them as he stares, eyes half-lidded at the blue of the spring sky, “I’m too happy not being enclosed in a tiny space with four walls to be hungry."

Felix sighs. Sylvain is being overly dramatic, but considering the fact he hasn’t been outside for weeks and didn’t even have a window for most of his isolation, Felix isn’t going to call him on it. In any case, he doesn’t look inclined to move so Felix gives up on expecting Sylvain to answer to the call of his eventual hunger and takes a seat beside him to his right on the grass, stretching a leg out while resting an arm on the bent knee of his other leg.

For a moment, the just sit there, on the grass, Sylvain staring at the sky, Felix glaring down the side path past the officer’s academy to the side path leading to the dining hall.

Of course, Sylvain has to break the silence.

“You know what I was just thinking?” he says, offhand.

“What,” Felix humours him.

“How dumb it was for Ferdinand to ban me from the armoury when you’re basically a walking armoury,” Sylvain says, taking a hand and bumping his knuckles against the swords Felix has strapped to his side,

“Oh?” Felix asks, amused, looking down on him, “I wasn’t aware you’d suddenly become proficient in swordplay. Perhaps I should take the opportunity to test your mettle in the ring.”

“Uh, no,” Sylvain immediately backpedals, jerking his arm back and away as if the sword he touched were on fire, “I was joking. I’m _so_ bad with a sword Felix,” he starts babbling, a mess of hyperbole, “I’m even worse than I was at the academy, in fact I’m worse than I was when I was a kid and I didn’t know what a sword was, please do not ask me to fight you with a sword.”

Felix snorts, “Weak.”

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain sits up, looking offended, “Not all of us eat, sleep, and breathe swordplay. I’m better than you at the lance!”

Felix raises an eyebrow, “So you’ll spar me with a lance.”

“No!” Sylvain exclaims, gesturing wildly and shaking his head, “No sparring, Felix!”

Felix laughs.

It feels good to laugh. He hasn’t had a good one in a while.

It’s easy, speaking with Sylvain. Easier to mock him. He’s missed this.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything for a while, so Felix looks back over at him, the mirth fading as he catches Sylvain’s expression of wide-eyed stupor.

“What?” he asks, concerned. Is there something on his face?

“Nothing, I just...” Sylvain catches himself, looking away, bringing a hand up to scratch at his head, “I guess you really missed me too.”

Felix frowns at him, “I told you yesterday-”

“Yeah but I mean...” Sylvain shrugs, “It’s different when you...” he flounders as Felix stares at him in confusion, “I dunno.”

That makes even less sense. What is Sylvain saying? That he hadn’t believed him, when Felix said he missed him?

There’s an ugly twinge in his chest, at that. Something like hurt.

Felix turns away with a huff, scowling again down the pathway at the end of the field.

Sylvain falls silent, looking apologetic. He leans back, resting his palms in the grass, resting his weight on his hands, arms straight to keep him upright.

For another long moment, they just sit side by side and avoid looking at each other. Distantly there’s the sounds of people, soldiers, walking about conducting their business. A bird calls, nearby. Another bird answers.

“Do you...” Felix ventures to ask, a question that’s been bothering him since he first spoke with Sylvain, yesterday, “Do you regret leaving the Kingdom?”

Sylvain said what happened on his journey to Gautier was an accident. He had turned south for Garreg Mach because he felt he didn’t have a choice. Since Felix learned that, he’s had a thought that Sylvain hadn’t meant to leave the Kingdom. It’s bothered him for a while, that Sylvain wasn’t here purely by choice but driven by circumstance. He doesn’t want him to go into the rest of the war, troubled by regret.

“...I dunno,” Sylvain admits, “It’s only been 2 weeks since, I guess, officially I did,” he says, “I mean, I did, sometimes, sitting in the stupid room von Aegir put me in, but... other times... I really... didn’t.”

Felix frowns at the indefinite answer, “Ok,” he says, simply.

So Sylvain does and he doesn’t. That doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Why are you asking?” Sylvain asks.

“No reason,” Felix lies.

Sylvain frowns. “...Felix.”

Two years and he still sees through him.

“What."

“Come on, talk to me,” Sylvain wheedles, leaning into him briefly before leaning away, “I’m outside, I’m here, I’m in a good mood, don’t bring me down now.”

Felix sighs, bringing his outstretched leg close and crossing his arms over his knees, “I just... Leaving the Kingdom is a big decision, Sylvain,” he says, looking down at a particularly large weed in front of him, “You left your family, your friends, your house...” he glances over at Sylvain, “You had a good life in Faerghus, Sylvain.”

He shouldn’t have had to leave it like that.

“What, are you trying to tell me coming here was a mistake?” Sylvain asks with an unhappy downturn to his mouth, “Do you want us to be on opposite sides, Felix?”

“No!” Felix responds, quickly - maybe too quickly, too honest, because Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up - “I...”

Sylvain waits.

Felix looks away, “I just don’t want you to do something you’d regret,” he manages to say quietly.

Sylvain gives him an unreadable look. Felix hunches over, unwilling to admit more under his scrutiny.

He opens his mouth to reply, but there’s a sound behind them of approaching footsteps, and he shuts his mouth with a click.

“Sir?” a voice asks, and Felix uncurls from his position to look over.

It’s an an imperial soldier, standing uncomfortably nearby with what looks like a considerable number of bags on his person.

“What,” Felix says irritably.

“I was told to give this to you,” the soldier says and holds out what looks like a beaten saddlebag, a travel pack, and what might be a half-empty belt pouch.

Sylvain leaps to his feet, “My stuff!” he cries, reaching for it, but is immediately waylaid when the soldier pulls his arms back, stepping away. “Hey!”

Felix shoves past him, reaching out to take everything from the soldier sent, likely by Ferdinand, to deliver Sylvain’s things to him, “Thanks,” he says, “You can go.”

The imperial soldier relinquishes the collection, turns around, and leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, he looks over at Sylvain, who’s visibly fuming beside him.

“...It’s _my_ stuff, Felix,” he whines, “Why’d he give it to you?”

Felix rolls his eyes and shoves the stack of it at him, smacking him in the chest, “Stop complaining, you fool. Nobody here trusts you,” he snaps, stepping back, nodding at the largest bag, “Do you have a change of clothes in there? A razor blade?”

“Uh...” Sylvain looks down at the bags in his arms, ”Yeah?”

“Great,” Felix declares, stepping back and crossing his arms, “Then you can clean yourself up because I’m sick of looking at... whatever you’re trying to grow on your face.”

Sylvain gives him an insulted look, “I’m not _trying_ to grow anything!” he retorts, “It’s not my fault von Aegir didn’t think to give me a mirror! Blame him! He watched me grow this and didn’t say a thing. He just let it happen!”

“Whatever,” Felix dismisses, “You remember where the bathhouse is,” he says, turning to the northern path overlooking the valley, which leads to the direction of said bathhouse.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain grumbles, adjusting his hold on his things.

“Hurry up,” Felix orders, starting to walk, “I have things to do.”

Sylvain takes a moment to sort himself out, but follows.

“Hey,” he calls when he catches up, bumping his hip into Felix’s side.

Felix resists the urge to bump him back and looks up at him as they walk.

“I just want you to know,” Sylvain says, gaze flicking downwards and back up again to meet his eyes.

Felix tilts his head.

“I don’t regret it, coming to Garreg Mach.”

Felix huffs and turns to look ahead again as they walk, “Ok.”

He doesn’t really believe him, but for now he’ll accept that answer.


	8. Fish Out of Water (pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain has been released. Felix... adjusts(?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so this one got away from me and it's Big Huge of a chapter so i split it in two :/

**Harpstring Moon  
** **1183**  
 **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Sylvain spends most of the first day of his freedom within monastery limits obsessively cleaning.

First, he spends an inordinate length of time in the bathhouse cleaning himself up. Felix, with the unspoken responsibility from Ferdinand to essentially ensure Sylvain doesn’t get himself into trouble, is forced to sit against the wall facing the bath house, waiting with nothing to do, staring blankly at the sky, trying not to think about how tired he is, after a night of poor sleep, or how hungry he is, having foregone breakfast.

After Sylvain finally emerges looking refreshed, clean shaven, and in a new set of clothes, Felix takes him to the dormitories, back to his old room at the end of the hall on the second floor.

Once he’s in his own space, Sylvain immediately sets his things inside and gets to work clearing out the mess of his old room.

When it’s clear the other man has no intentions of leaving the dormitories for a while, tossing detritus and trash into the hallway, organizing what’s left in his room, and using the old linens and bedding within to clear out the dust, Felix leaves him to get something to eat.

He drops by his room to retrieve his dishes from the previous night, taking them to the dining hall to trade for two plates of meat skewers with a side of vegetables which he takes back to the dormitories and sets on the floor, eating off his own plate as he waits for Sylvain to realize he’s hungry.

Sylvain emerges eventually, lured by the smell of food, and they sit on the dormitory hallway floor eating together like delinquent academy students taking food where they’re not supposed to be. It’s strangely nostalgic.

Between bites, Sylvain asks where to find the laundress so he can find clean sheets and bedding as well as get his hands on cleaning supplies to properly clean out his room.

Felix agrees to take him to the laundry room and dumps his extra vegetables on Sylvain’s plate.

Sylvain frowns at him for it but eats all of it like a starving man.

When they’re done, Felix grabs their plates and utensils as Sylvain grabs his old linens and gestures for him to follow.

Eyes follow them, as Felix leads Sylvain around the monastery, first to the dining hall to return the plates, then to the main building to find the laundry. Felix feels self-conscious under the scrutiny and keeps his eyes forward, a frown etched permanently on his face. It’s inevitable, he supposes, with Sylvain following him around. Not every day a new Kingdom noble shows up at the imperial occupied monastery, walking around like a guest. He grits his teeth and walks faster.

Sylvain, to his credit, doesn’t crack any jokes and keeps pace, sticking close to Felix. His proximity - making sure he’s less than one arm’s length away from Felix, leaning imperceptibly into him when they’re standing side by side - and his silence tells Felix, more than anything else, of Sylvain’s discomfort with the attention.

At the least nobody approaches either of them, though some do nod at Felix as he passes, the usual acknowledgement of a fellow imperial soldier.

It’s endurable, at least.

When they have everything Sylvain needs to make his living space tolerable for his exacting cleanly standards, they return to the dormitories and Sylvain sets back to work again, rolling up his sleeves and disappearing within his room to clean.

“You don’t have to sit out there and watch me,” he yells over the sound of his scrubbing.

Felix just grunts back in return, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“I’m serious,” Sylvain says, popping his head out, “I don’t know if anyone’s told you, Felix, but you look like you’re dead on your feet. Go take a nap.”

Felix just glares at him. If he falls asleep, Sylvain might wander away and get in trouble. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him, necessarily. It’s that he’s not sure what things will be like if Sylvain is caught wandering around alone.

Sylvain sighs at his expression, “I won’t leave the dormitories, and I’ll come wake you if I want to go out.”

Felix blinks, shifting his weight, considering.

He _is_ very tired. The lack of good sleep the night prior is getting to him after the early start to the long morning. “I promise,” Sylvain declares, “Not to leave the dormitories.”

Felix narrows his eyes but Sylvain meets his gaze straight on and unflinchingly.

Good enough, Felix supposes. Sylvain hadn’t been entirely comfortable in the earlier walk through the monastery. It doesn’t seem he’s particularly inclined to leave without Felix.

“Fine,” Felix says, relenting, “You know where my room is.”

Sylvain nods, “Uh huh. Go to sleep,” he orders, and disappears back into his room to do whatever he’s doing.

Felix rolls his eyes, remaining for a moment longer in the hall, listening to Sylvain knock something over and curse before the sound of scrubbing starts up again.

Then he walks into his own room, two doors down, and sets his swords aside carefully, before removing and tossing his sword belt on his desk. He leaves his room door open, an unspoken invitation for Sylvain to disturb him if he’s needed.

Then he takes a seat on his bed, kicks off his boots with the gaiters still on them, and lays on his side over the covers.

Just a quick nap, he decides, and closes his eyes.

**~o.O.o~**

Felix jerks awake with a start, disoriented, the fog of sleep muddling his vision. There’s the phantom sensation of falling lingering still, the flare of the pain of an old scar revived in a forgotten dream flashing through his left side, before he gathers his bearings, awake fully, realizing where he is.

The sun is still up, barely: the golden light of sundown filtering through the half-closed curtains and the open door of his room, thrown wide. He pushes himself up, stretching out. Somebody has thrown another blanket over him while he was asleep on top of his covers and moved his boots to the side of the room by the door, for good measure..

A quick look through his room finds the culprit seated in his desk chair, facing backwards, arms crossed across the top of the back, head pillowed on them, asleep.

That can’t be a comfortable position.

Felix shoves the blanket off himself and reaches out with a socked foot, nudging at the leg of the chair with a gentle but firm kick.

Sylvain snaps awake with a muffled “Wruh,” shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, “Whas goin’ on,” he slurs, “Wha’ time‘s it.”

“How long have you been there?" Felix asks instead of answering his questions, slightly annoyed, “You spent all afternoon cleaning your room and you can’t even sleep in your own bed?”

Sylvain rolls his shoulder, stretching his neck to work out what must be a terrible crick in it from his position, “I didn’t mean to fall sleep,” he groans, tipping his head to stretch out his back, “I was going to wake you up but you looked like you needed the rest so I thought I’d wait.”

Felix sits up properly, planting his feet on the floor, “So what, you decided to watch me sleep?” he asks, cheeks heating.

Sylvain rubs the back of his neck, “Maybe?” he asks, sounding sheepish, “I promised I wouldn’t leave the dorms, and I don’t have anything else to do, so...”

Properly embarrassed now, Felix stands, takes hold of the blanket and throws it at Sylvain, who catches it awkwardly, blinking blearily as Felix strides over to his boots, tugging them on.

“Come on,” Felix says, staring determinedly at the floor as he yanks at the cuff of the boots, then the gaiters so they stretch and fit appropriately on both his legs, “It’s dinner hour, they don’t keep the doors open that long. You’re probably hungry,” he says, reaching past Sylvain’s seated form for his sword belt, fastening it before reaching for his swords leaned against the wall.

“Right,” Sylvain responds dumbly, scooting awkwardly off the chair from his backward facing position to stand, “I’ll just,” he gestures vaguely with the blanket in his arms and darts out the door to return to his room to put the blanket away.

Felix shuts the door behind him and waits in the corridor for Sylvain to re-emerge from his room. When he rejoins him after closing his own room door, they set off for the dining hall together, Felix just one half step ahead and Sylvain one half step behind.

When they reach the dining hall, Sylvain sticks close to Felix, hovering behind him close enough to feel like he’s looming with his height. Felix glances back at him but Sylvain isn’t looking at him, looking around nervously instead, gaze darting around his surroundings.

The dining hall is more or less half full at this hour. If Felix looks, he can see curious looks from other imperial soldiers and monastery staff pointed their way. It’s not surprising, given Sylvain’s tall stature and new face to those who have been here for a while.

Felix mentally debates with himself if they should take their food to go again and eat somewhere more private in the monastery but decides in the end it’s only delaying the inevitable. Sylvain is going to be here at Garreg Mach for the foreseeable future; eventually he’s going to have to eat in the dining hall and mingle with the rest of the population at the monastery. The earlier he does it, the faster everyone gets used to his presence.

“Hey,” Felix says, catching Sylvain’s attention.

“Yeah, what,” Sylvain responds, finally looking at him.

Felix takes hold of his arm and shoves him in response, directing him down the length of the space to the end of the dining hall, close to the door leading to the entrance hall. Fewer people tend to sit there, given the distance the seats are from the food. If Sylvain’s nervous about scrutiny by imperial troops, this is the best place to seat him to avoid being the center of attention, what with his ridiculous height and his Gautier red hair.

“Stay here,” Felix orders, after pushing him into a seat at the end of the table, “I’ll be back.”

Sylvain just settles in and nods, crossing his arms on the table and leaning over them. Felix frowns at him for a moment - is he trying to make himself look smaller? - and when he determines Sylvain isn’t going to flee, turns back to the front of the hall to grab some food.

When Felix returns with two helpings of fried pheasant with vegetables, Sylvain has more or less dropped his head onto his arms, resting on the table, eyes less nervous, only occasionally looking around. A wide berth of space has been left around him at the edge of the long tables of the hall.

Felix sets the plates down on the table and sits next to him, placing himself between Sylvain and the rest of the hall. Sylvain sits up immediately, dragging his serving over to himself and grinning at Felix with something that looks like relief.

It’s strange to see Sylvain so nervous but Felix supposes it can’t be helped. Despite Ferdinand’s permission for him to roam, and his familiarity with the monastery from his time as an academy student, it must be strange to see the imperial occupation of the space and for him to know he’s a Kingdom noble in an imperial stronghold.

They’re halfway through their meal when they’re finally approached and considering who it is, Felix thinks it’s probably an overdue meeting.

“Oh, would you look who it is,” Dorothea sing-songs as she sits across from them with her own plate, laden with stir-fried vegetables.

Felix hums in response and nods in greeting, still chewing on his mouthful of food.

Sylvain perks up, brightening instantly at the sight of a familiar face, “Do mine eyes deceive me, or is it the lovely Dorothea I see before me?” he asks with a coy lilt, a pleased grin on his face.

“Sylvain,” Dorothea says, indulgently, glancing over at Felix with a knowing smile when he rolls his eyes, “I’m glad to see Ferdie let you out,” she expresses before she spears a piece of carrot, popping it in her mouth.

“Oh, so you knew I was here,” Sylvain says with a tilt of his head, his voice still coy, but his eyes calculating.

“Of course I knew, Sylvain,” she responds, looking down at her plate to poke at her vegetables with her fork, “You aren’t exactly subtle. Why you’ve been the hot topic of gossip at the monastery for two weeks now, since your announcement at the gates,” she looks back up at him, quirking her brow deliberately, “Today the talk has been a little louder, so I had a hunch you’d be around. I must have missed you at lunch.”

Sylvain flips his fork in his hands, “Oh, Felix and I had a quiet lunch,” he says, glancing aside at the rest of the hall, “Wasn’t really feeling the, uh, attention.”

Dorothea nods, “Of course,” she responds, understanding, “Well, do tell, how has your day been, then?”

Felix takes the opportunity to flick two pieces of bell pepper and three leaves of lettuce onto Sylvain’s half empty plate.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Sylvain responds, elbowing him in response and flicking the red piece of bell pepper back, “I’ve spent most of it cleaning.”

“Ah, I suppose you’re staying in your old academy room then?” Dorothea asks knowingly, with a private little smile, “How quaint.”

“Like we aren’t all staying in our old rooms,” Felix grumbles, spearing the red pepper and deciding he’ll stomach it after all, given the fact it’s made its way back to his plate.

“Huh, I didn’t know you all were doing that too,” Sylvain says with a considering frown, “Isn’t that... weird?”

“How so?” Felix asks.

“Uh,” Sylvain shrugs, poking at his pheasant, “I mean... ”

“A room’s a room,” Felix says simply, “Why wouldn’t I keep using the room I had?”

“It’s nice to have a little familiarity, Sylvain,” Dorothea interjects, in a far kinder tone of voice, “With how much things have changed.”

“Right,” Sylvain says, dubiously.

There’s a silence filled only by the clink of cutlery as they eat. Felix mulls over what was just said. Does Sylvain find it weird, staying in his old room? It must at least be better than staying in a room he’s unfamiliar with. Or did he want another room?

“So, what have you been up to, Dorothea?” Sylvain asks after a moment, pulling Felix from his contemplations, “Fighting in the imperial mage corps? Frying Kingdom and Alliance soldiers at the behest of your Emperor?”

Felix meets Dorothea’s gaze. She looks uncomfortable, looking over at Felix, who looks over at Sylvain then back to her, shaking his head to indicate he hadn’t said anything to Sylvain about her.

He isn’t sure if it’s just a tactless question or if Sylvain is deliberately wording that question the worst possible way he could.

“I don’t,” she responds eventually, looking back over at Sylvain’s expectant gaze, brow furrowed, “Fight, I mean. Actually.”

Sylvain makes a considering sound, chewing on his bite of poultry, “So what, von Aegir just lets you stay here?” he asks, and now Felix frowns at him too, because now it’s clear Sylvain’s being deliberately obtuse, “Seems like a weird use of military resources, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you dislike fighting so much, why are you even here at a military stronghold?”

Dorothea sits up straight, placing her fork down deliberately against her plate, “I do mind you saying, actually,” she responds sharply, “I see the war hasn’t done anything to make you more of a gentleman.”

“Well, you know war,” Sylvain responds easily, tracing an absent circle in the air with his fork, “Brings out the worst in all of us.”

Dorothea looks over at Felix, looking offended, seeking answers for Sylvain’s behaviour. Felix can’t give her any, glancing over at Sylvain who’s only looking neutrally back at Dorothea. There’s no more coy smiles, friendly openness to his eyes.

Felix drops his arm to elbow Sylvain under the ribs, “Sylvain,” he reprimands.

Sylvain seems to catch himself when he meets Felix’s perturbed frown. He coughs, shaking his head, “My bad, let’s... start over,” he says, resetting, “Dorothea, what have you been up to the last two years?” he asks, as if he didn’t just commit a deliberate sabotage of the conversation or insult Dorothea to her face.

Dorothea must be willing to forgive, because she gives him a considering look before taking her fork back up in her hand, soldiering on, “Well, if you must know,” she says slowly, glancing at Felix once before meeting Sylvain’s more open gaze, “I’ve been... doing my part to ensure the war orphans that find their way here to Garreg Mach are well taken care of,” she says carefully, “Goddess knows that the war has killed so many, but... I do my best to make sure the children here are well cared for.”

Sylvain looks down at his plate, “That’s...” he trails off.

“That’s what, Sylvain,” Dorothea asks, eyes narrowed, prepared, this time, for a mean-spirited jab, “Naive?” she asks, “Soft-hearted?”

“I was going to say ‘great’,” Sylvain responds apologetically, with a wince, “It’s... you’re doing good work, Dorothea.”

“Oh...” Dorothea responds hesitantly, “Thank you.”

It’s excruciatingly awkward for everyone, but especially Felix.

“So,” Sylvain says, poking at his meal, “Garreg Mach still takes in orphans huh.”

“Well, even with the Church gone, the monastery draws people in,” Dorothea replies, glad to be having a civil conversation again, “We can’t just leave the needy to suffer, Sylvain. We’re better than that.”

“And what,” Sylvain scoffs, “Ferdinand just lets you take care of people right under his military stronghold using his resources?”

“Yes, actually,” Dorothea retorts, frowning again, “There's other help here, of course, but... is that really so hard to believe?”

Sylvain pokes at his food and doesn’t meet her gaze in lieu of responding.

Dorothea sighs, a flash of realization coming across her face, “We’re not bad people, Sylvain,” she says, gently but firmly, “We have different ideals, but we would never leave people who come to us for help to suffer.”

“...Yeah, okay,” Sylvain grumbles in what sounds like reluctance.

Oh.

Felix meets Dorothea’s gaze, coming to a realization of his own. Of course Sylvain has misgivings, he’s been fighting against the Empire for two years. Regardless of his place and situation now, as a guest of the Empire, two weeks in isolation and one day in Felix’s company in the monastery isn’t going to turn over his anger with the Empire or the people he knew from the Black Eagle house.

Sylvain has been friendly with Felix on the back of their longtime friendship and Felix’s similar position as an ex-Kingdom noble heir. He likely won’t play so nice with other Black Eagle classmates, or imperial soldiers and leadership.

Not now.

It’s something Felix needs to keep in mind.

“So, Felix,” Dorothea says after several more bites of her food, directing her attention to him instead, a known variable rather than Sylvain’s hot and cold, “How has your first day back with Sylvain been? Has he been giving you trouble?"

“Not sure what trouble he could get up to,” Felix mutters, using his fork to shove his vegetables in circles around his plate, his serving of pheasant picked clean, ”It’s the first day. Maybe check by tomorrow.”

“Why do you assume I’m going to cause trouble?” Sylvain asks in mock annoyance, nudging him before leaning against him, using his height and his weight to annoy him without expending energy.

Felix stubbornly holds his ground, shoving back to prevent Sylvain from knocking him over in his seat.

Dorothea smiles, looking knowingly at the both of them, “Sylvain, you’ve always been trouble,” she says.

Felix meets her gaze and the two of them share a brief smirk of commiseration at Sylvain’s expense before returning their attention to their food.

Sylvain narrows his eyes, crossing his arms on the table, done with his meal. His gaze darts from Dorothea, to Felix, and back again, considering.

Felix shoves his own plate aside, done with picking at his vegetables, “What,” he says impatiently, as Sylvain studies the two of them.

“Nothing,” Sylvain says, propping his head up with a hand, elbow on the table, “Just... never knew you and Dorothea were friends.”

Dorothea huffs a laugh, finishing off her plate, “Oh, I don’t know if we’re friends,” she says teasingly, “Felix is always so rude to me.”

Felix snorts. She’s not wrong, necessarily. He was very rude to her the first few times they spoke.

Sylvain frowns.

“She’s a good sparring partner,” Felix allows, crossing his arms on the table.

“That’s all it takes, huh,” Sylvain muses, bemused.

Felix raises an eyebrow, “That’s all it takes to what.”

“To be friends with you,” Sylvain finishes.

Felix scowls at him. He’s not so simple, is he?

This time Dorothea huffs a laugh, “Oh, come now, don’t tease him Sylvain,” she says with a wave of her hand, “You know far better than I do the exacting qualities needed for Felix to consider somebody a friend. We barely spoke for the longest time. I’d say at this point we’re... acquaintances, at best.”

Okay, they’re both mocking him now. Felix rolls his eyes, “Whatever,” he mutters, self conscious suddenly.

“Hey come on buddy, I’m just joking,” Sylvain says agreeably, knocking his shoulder into his, “Besides, it’s nice to see that in the time we’ve been apart you managed to figure out how to talk with girls. Becoming friends with the lovely Dorothea is no small feat.”

Felix elbows him back, “You’re insufferable,” he grumbles.

“Well, I’m glad to see you two get along like you’ve always done,” Dorothea says, standing up, clearly done with watching them, “I’ll see you around, Sylvain,” she says, gathering her plates and cutlery, “Stay out of trouble now.”

“Sure,” Sylvain agrees, grin back on his face for now, “For you, Dorothea, I’ll do my best.”

She gives him a look that says she doesn’t intend to take him seriously at his word and turns to Felix instead, “Felix, you should bring Sylvain to tea next time.”

“I’m not sitting down for tea,” Felix responds immediately. Tea parties are a waste of time, as far as he’s concerned. The time is better spent doing something productive. Most of the teas Dorothea likes are too sweet for his tastes, anyway.

“Come now, you still owe me for our last training session,” she chides, “I’ve been meaning to share a nice pot of Albinean berry blend with Bernadetta, you two ought to join and make it a real party.”

Felix makes a face, “Tsk, I don’t like berry teas.”

“Then bring your sharp pine needles then,” Dorothea responds dismissively.

“Don’t have any more.”

Dorothea huffs, “You really like making this difficult for me, don’t you.”

He sighs. He supposes he hasn’t yet paid her back for agreeing to spar with him the last time, keeping his memory of his magic studies fresh in his mind since he hasn’t been using the skill much in combat, “I’ll think about it,” he concedes.

“I suppose that’s the best I’ll get out of you,” Dorothea sighs, hefting the plate in her hands.

“Hm,” he responds. She’s not wrong.

“Then I’ll see you,” she says with a small nod and a short curtsy, ever the performer, “Felix,” she says in farewell, “Sylvain.”

Felix nods with a grunt. Sylvain actually waves a goodbye as she leaves - heading back to the front of the hall to turn in her dirty plates before departing.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Sylvain immediately crosses his arms on the table again, staring at Felix intently, eyes wide, eyebrows up, clearly bursting with something inane he wants to say.

Felix gives him a stink eye, but graciously allows him the opportunity to say it, “What,” he grumbles.

“Tea with Dorothea, huh,” Sylvain says, with a leery grin, “You know, _I’ve_ never even had tea with Dorothea,” he huffs a laugh, “I mean, I had dinner with her once, but she’s never invited me to _tea_.“

Felix rolls his eyes. The more things change, the more Sylvain remains the same, “That’s because you’re an insatiable fool,” Felix sneers back, “She has a good head on her shoulders, despite her want to chase down a husband. She likely sees right through you.”

Sylvain’s gaze floats up and to the side, considering.

“Besides, you’ve just been invited to tea,” Felix grumbles. He doesn’t have much to do since his last mission concluded, and Ferdinand won’t be inclined to give him another long one for at least another week. It’s inevitable at this point, for him to have to join Dorothea for tea in lieu of anything else productive to do. She’s far too savvy to allow her tea time invitation to overlap with his training sessions. “Congratulations, you’ll finally get your tea party with her, albeit with other company present.”

“...Wow,” Sylvain says with a snort, “You two really did get along while I wasn’t here, huh.”

Felix meets his gaze. There’s a strange look on Sylvain’s face, it’s not one he can place. An unfamiliar expression; something new.

“I guess we did,” Felix says neutrally, before pushing himself to stand, “Give me your plate,” he orders, reaching out.

Sylvain passes it over, and despite the free pass to leave the dining hall at his leisure, follows Felix to the front anyway, his nervous demeanor at being scrutinized by other diners forgotten.

**~o.O.o.~**

It’s strange, having Sylvain around in the monastery.

Of course, there’s the inherent strangeness of having one of his oldest friends now present in the monastery after two years living with the knowledge he had abandoned him and everything else with him when he left Faerghus, but Sylvain’s presence feels peculiar not only due to that, but also because his company is constant. Felix is used to being alone - his time spent with friends since his academy year has usually been limited to during group tasks and work, on marches, social engagements, training, and the occasional impossible to avoid invitations to tea - when he’s doing individual duties he prefers to do them alone, taking the time he needs to himself, working in silence.

Sylvain makes being alone in the monastery all but impossible. After the second day of his free roam within the monastery - where Felix agreed to walk Sylvain through the monastery in a tour, to familiarize him with the changes made by imperial occupation and to lay out boundaries Ferdinand expressed regarding where he can walk freely and where he will be stopped by guards, where he’s not allowed to go at all - Sylvain continues to stick stubbornly by Felix’s side.

Even after Felix reminds him, matter of fact, that he doesn’t have to stay by his side at all hours because Felix isn’t his jailer, Sylvain had thrown an arm over his shoulders and poked him in the face, glibly responding, “It’s been two years, Felix, maybe I just want to hang out with my best friend!”

When Felix threatens to spar with him, Sylvain eventually folds and sheepishly concedes that he “didn’t have anything better to do” and that he didn’t want to wander around alone. Considering the circumstances and the recency with which Sylvain was given freedom to roam, Felix doesn’t push it.

Despite his inability to remain quiet for long, filling silences by asking questions - about the monastery, about life with the Empire, about what Felix is doing and why it’s his responsibility - Sylvain isn’t an obtrusive presence. He’s self-conscious, content to observe and does his best to stay out of the way. When Felix has to venture into areas Sylvain isn’t allowed, he stays outside within his allowed boundaries, waiting outside stairwells and doorways until Felix returns like a clingy stray dog who’s found someone willing to care for him.

It’s weird and attention grabbing, but Felix holds his tongue, tolerating Sylvain’s need to orbit him and the stares and gossip inevitably circulating about the two of them. Sylvain is in a new place surrounded by new people - people he spent two years fighting in the war that’s still ongoing. Felix can’t begrudge him the desire to stay in sight of something familiar.

If he’s honest with himself, Sylvain’s constant presence isn’t even the most peculiar feeling thing to Felix about his old friend suddenly being present at the monastery.

Being able to wake up and see Sylvain in the flesh, unharmed and well, and for Sylvain to treat him as he’s always has is equal parts comforting and discomforting. It’s comforting to know Sylvain still cares and considers him a friend - for two years Felix had no idea what Sylvain had thought of him, but knew acutely in his heart that his decision to follow Edelgard would be a betrayal to his oldest friends. By all rights, Sylvain should hate him; he _should_ be angry, and that anger should reflect in his actions - but Sylvain sticks near, engages Felix in easy conversation, remains as touchy feely as ever, slinging an arm over his shoulder as they walk, leaning his weight into him, engaging in subtle shoves, pokes, and elbowing as if they’d never stopped being old friends. Perhaps it’s selfish to think, but it’s a relief.

All the same, the fact Sylvain isn’t airing his righteous anger - that Sylvain is choosing not to revisit his anxieties and his upset with Felix regarding his choices and his abandonment of Faerghus, that he’d expressed in their one conversation before Hubert and Ferdinand determined Sylvain should be let out of his prison cell of a room - worries Felix the longer Sylvain’s amicable behaviour goes on for.

“Sylvain,” Felix asks once, after a few days in Sylvain’s presence, while he watches him fuss over his horse in the stables, “Are you alright?”

Sylvain had stopped cooing at his mare, looking over at him by the far wall and given him a weird look, “Yes? Why are you asking?”

If Felix stares hard enough, he thinks he can see the edges of the mask Sylvain is so used to putting up to show an affable façade while hiding his inner turmoil. Sylvain doesn’t crack under his scrutiny though, looking genuinely confused as he stares Felix down, patting his fussy mare to distract her from seeking more treats from his belt pouch.

Felix doesn’t push. If Sylvain wants to talk he will, he decides. Making him air his grievances isn’t going to accomplish anything. At the least, he should allow Sylvain to do it at his own pace.

“Never mind,” he says instead, and turns his attention back to the dagger in his hand, whittling a block of wood nervously into an undefined abstract shape.

Sylvain doesn’t push him either. They end up spending the afternoon in the stables in relative silence, broken only by Sylvain’s sugary words to his beloved horse while Felix stands outside the stall, whittling away, deep in thought.

**~o.O.o.~**

On the fifth day of Sylvain’s release to roam the monastery, Linhardt returns to the monastery.

He appears more or less suddenly, wandering into the pavilion where Dorothea, Felix, Sylvain, and a very nervous Bernadetta are in the middle of tea.

His timing is terrible as per usual, with him striding right up to them in the middle of Dorothea’s account of a delightful little performance she’d put on for some young children in one of the neighbouring villages, interrupting her story by arriving, turning to Sylvain and saying, simply, “I require your presence,” without even a hello.

Dorothea stops speaking with an exasperated look as Bernadetta’s gaze darts all around the table, determining if the situation is one she needs to flee.

Sylvain just stares at him, teacup halfway to his mouth, unsure exactly of what to make of what is going on.

“Linhardt,” Dorothea scolds eventually, “Not even a hello?”

“Yes, hello,” the scholar responds absently, turning to the rest of the table to wave in a half-hearted greeting before turning back to Sylvain.

Sylvain just stares at him, but when it’s apparent Linhardt will outlast him in a staring contest, he looks to Felix for help.

Felix can’t give him any. He’s never understood Linhardt on the best of days and he doesn’t know how to talk to him even now. His interactions with the bishop and scholar have either been filtered through Caspar, been constrained to their time as allies in combat during missions at the academy, or endured during the brief periods of time where he has to try to avoid Linhardt when he’s struck by the compulsion to study Felix’s major crest again.

It’s Bernadetta who breaks the silence, saving Sylvain briefly from the intent scrutiny, “W-when did you get back, Linhardt?” she asks timidly, hiding behind her half-filled teacup.

Linhardt sighs, recognizing he is being waylaid from his goal, but with enough presence of mind to know he ought to be at least somewhat courteous and engage in conversation, “Just now, I suppose. Hubert was returning to Garreg Mach so I made him take me with him. I was tired of sitting around at home being told I’m a layabout by my father.”

“Oh, Hubie’s back then?” Dorothea asks, leaning forward to snag another butter biscuit, eager to hear gossip.

“Yes,” Linhardt sighs, realizing he’s in a conversation now and thereby must follow rules of courtesy, “Apparently he needs to update Ferdinand on things from the capital. He wouldn’t tell me what, but I confess I wasn’t very interested in that anyway.”

“So you’re back,” Felix summarizes, frowning up at him.

“Well yes?” Linhardt replies with a shrug, “If you must know, Caspar also wrote to me saying he was due to return here soon and it has been a while since I’ve seen him. That Sylvain is also here now means this is the best time to come back to Garreg Mach, as it were.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes at him.

Felix frowns, “Sylvain?”

“Yes, of course,” Linhardt responds, as if it’s obvious to everybody and not just himself, “Hubert told me you’ve surrendered the Lance of Ruin,” he says, matter of fact, to Sylvain, “Now is the opportune time to study it.”

Sylvain manages a crooked smile, forced, “Right,” he says, with a wooden laugh, “Of course.”

Linhardt either doesn’t notice his discomfort or doesn’t find it important, turning to Felix, “And while you’re here, Felix--”

“No,” Felix interrupts before he gets to ask, not even looking at him to impart the refusal, sipping at his tea and making a face when he remembers it’s berry tea and he doesn’t like it.

Sylvain coughs, “So, uh... why do you need me?”

“If I intend to study the infamous relic, to gain a full understanding I would need to also study the compatible crest,” Linhardt explains with the wave of his hand, “Hence, I require your presence.”

Sylvain leans back, holding his teacup in his hands, “Uh... no,” he says, then turns to Felix, “Can I say no?” he asks, unsure.

“Yes,” Felix responds, firmly.

“I suppose,” Linhardt answers as well, ignoring Felix, “But why would you? You clearly have nothing better to do. I know you don’t have any responsibilities.”

There’s an awkward silence at the table as everyone glances at Sylvain, whose expression has dropped off his face, leaving him looking back up at Linhardt, face blank. Felix frowns back at Linhardt.

He’s not wrong, but it feels like an incredible faux pas to mention Sylvain’s situation directly to his face in such a manner.

“Linhardt,” Dorothea says, aiming to diffuse the situation, “If you’re just arrived at the monastery, you might as well join us for tea,” she drags a chair over from the adjacent table, ushering him to sit, “There’s no need to jump right into... whatever you’re working on immediately.”

“Why not?” Linhardt asks, but acquiesces, walking over to take a seat between her and Felix, “The relic is here now, and Sylvain is also here now. I shouldn’t have to explain how a window of opportunity works.”

“Are you sure you should be studying th-the Lance anyway?” Bernadetta speaks up, clutching her teacup firmly in her hands, “Y-you know what happened last time w-when...” she stammers.

Sylvain winces, but Felix is the only one to notice it.

“Everybody is always so concerned about the risks,” Linhardt pouts with a look of consternation, “Research has indicated that if you have a crest, even if the relic is not compatible, the chances of being transformed into a beast are much less. I have a crest, the risks are minimal.”

“But there’s still a risk!” Bernadetta blurts out, concerned.

Dorothea looks to Felix. He stares back evenly, giving a shrug. He’s not familiar with the intricacies of crest study and research, knowing only the crest in his own blood like an extension of himself and the rules they tell all noble heirs who inherit their house relics to never allow anyone without the correct crest to use it. The reasons why were never discussed, and the understanding of how a relic would corrupt someone without the right crest not even remotely properly researched. Given the church’s reluctance to even explain why Miklan had turned into a beast because of the Lance of Ruin in their academy year, Felix isn’t inclined to believe anything he thinks he knows about how relics work and the dangers of working with them. For all he knows, the knowledge passed down within each noble house and the guidance from the Church could all be contrived fiction.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Linhardt says dismissively, as sure as he possibly can be that he will not be transformed by meddling with a relic with an incorrect crest.

“Yeah, I’m going to have to say no,” Sylvain says firmly, “If you want to study that thing, do it without me.”

Linhardt pouts at him, brow furrowed, and opens his mouth to launch into debate.

“Sylvain can’t help you anyway,” Felix cuts in before he can try to persuade him.

“Why not?” Linhardt asks, turning his attention to him instead.

“He’s been forbidden to be anywhere near it.”

“Oh yeah,” Sylvain perks up, setting his teacup back in its saucer, “Von Vestra did say that! Sorry,” he says to Linhardt, not sounding sorry at all, “Guess you’re out of luck.”

Linhardt frowns, looking down at the table, “Well, why would he do that?” he mutters.

Everyone stares at him like he’s daft. Felix glances at Sylvain, who looks physically pained.

“Be...cause I’m a Kingdom defector with undetermined loyalties and I... might hurt a lot of people here if I had access to the Lance?” Sylvain says, unsure in the face of Linhardt’s behaviour.

“Well that’s silly,” Linhardt says with a huff.

Bernadetta chokes on her mouthful of tea. Dorothea quickly passes her a handkerchief, giving Linhardt a look of confusion. Felix crosses his arms.

Linhardt can’t possibly be this obtuse.

“...What?” Sylvain asks, faintly.

“If you were intending to hurt anyone, you would have done it by now, surely.”

“...Linhardt.” Dorothea manages to say, trying to caution him.

“All I’m saying is that if Sylvain really were a danger to Garreg Mach, he wouldn’t be sitting here with you having tea,” Linhardt says, gesturing over the spread of the table, matter of fact.

Felix tips his head in consideration. He always knew Sylvain wasn’t really a threat but the way Linhardt just plainly puts it out there is certainly... something. Dorothea and Bernadetta blink at Linhardt, then at the table, set up for tea.

Sylvain coughs, nervous and put on the spot, “...I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

“I know there’s always the possibility of subterfuge or the ‘long game’ as Caspar likes to put it,” Linhardt says impatiently, “But if that were the case, then why would Sylvain just walk up to the gates and gamble on not being killed? It seems like a foolish way to attempt something like that.”

Felix glances at Sylvain with narrowed eyes. Regardless of Sylvain’s goals, his manner of approach was always foolish. Sylvain doesn’t see him, staring, instead, blankly at Linhardt with something that looks halfway between awe and dread.

“Ergo, he doesn’t really have intentions of hurting anyone,” Linhardt concludes, shaking his head, “Besides, if he did want to cause damage with the lance, it’s not so powerful that he wouldn’t be stopped anyway.”

There’s a long moment of silence after, as everyone stares at Linhardt, watching as he reaches, finally, for a butter biscuit, properly taking part in tea even without his own teacup.

“Well,” Dorothea says, finally, after a long moment, looking across the table, locking gazes with each person present, “I certainly didn’t expect our conversation to turn in this direction.”

“You’re telling me,” Sylvain mutters, taking up his teacup and draining it as if it were something far stronger than it is.

“I suppose I’ll have to speak with Hubert,” Linhardt sighs, slumping in his seat, “I’m sure that will be a joy.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Sylvain says, only a little snide, mostly distracted, “Thanks for the tea, Dorothea, it was great while it lasted,” he nods at her, itching to leave, ”Bernadetta,” he nods at her too, “I’m gonna...” he points to the walkway out of the area, “Go. See you around.”

Then he stands abruptly and leaves, walking as fast as he can, not even looking back to wave as he rounds the corner behind the hedges and disappears.

Everyone watches him go, stuck in the whiplash between Linhardt’s matter of fact statements regarding Sylvain’s potential as a threat and Sylvain himself fleeing, obviously at least upset, if not angry at what just went down.

Felix sits up, making to stand, “...I should....” he gestures faintly in Sylvain’s general direction.

Dorothea recovers as quick as she can, ever the gracious tea party host, “Of course,” she says strongly, “Thank you for joining us, Felix,” she nods, bidding him farewell.

Bernadetta gives him a nervous look, but manages a faint smile, nodding at him as well.

“Right,” he says awkwardly, then turns and leaves, jogging after Sylvain.

“Was it something I said?” he hears Linhardt say, as he departs.

“Oh, Lin,” Dorothea sighs, only slightly chiding, “Sometimes you just lack tact.”

Felix catches up to Sylvain at the stables where he’s pacing, agitated, back and forth in front of the stall holding his horse, arms crossed, frowning as he takes long steps, just shy of stomping, in thought,

“Sylvain,” Felix calls out as he approaches.

Sylvain spins on his heel, his frown melting away into surprise, then a forced affability, “Uh, Hey!” he says, “Felix, you didn’t have to leave on my account, I know you and Dorothea were supposed to have a proper tea party and everything...”

He looks rattled. Felix has never liked his put upon smiles and the grins that are just too tight to be real, but this one looks particularly brittle, the expression barely holding together to mask obvious upset and likely anger.

“Are you alright?” Felix asks, striding up to him, tilting his head.

“Hm?” Sylvain asks, distracted, “Oh, yeah, I’m... fine,” he lies, placing a hand on his hip, his stance open but tense, one foot tapping in the dirt, agitated, “Just...” he trails off.

Felix waits patiently, for him to get his thoughts together.

Sylvain bites his lip, absently, brow furrowing, before looking him in the eye and blurting out, “Is he always like that?”

“Linhardt?” Felix asks, turning subtly back towards the direction he came from, “I... suppose, yes,” he confirms, “He’s...” he tries to think of a word that would describe the scholar-bishop appropriately without using poor language.

“Rude?” Sylvain asks contemptuously, with a huff, crossing his arms and turning away..

“Socially inept. At times.” Felix suggests, more delicately, “When he has an interest in something he’s... persistent.”

Sylvain glances back over at him, “You sound like you’ve encountered that side of him before,” he says neutrally, curious, but upset enough to not want to show it.

“He studies crests, Sylvain,” Felix responds with a shrug, “I have a major one. There aren’t a lot of those, nowadays, so he says.”

At the mention of crests, Sylvain scowls, then bites it back into a agitated frown, “Right...” he says, irritably, “Right...”

Whatever thoughts he’s obviously thinking, he doesn’t deign to share.

“Is... something on your mind?” Felix asks as delicately as he can. Whatever Sylvain is thinking is clearly bothering him. If he has something he want to say, he ought to say it. Felix would listen.

“Nope!” Sylvain denies instantly, waving his arm dismissively, “Nothing... important.” he says, “Just...” he trails off.

Felix frowns at him.

Sylvain shakes his head, deciding better of it, “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says, kicking his heel into the dirt, “Anyway, hey it’s almost dinner time, are you hungry?” he asks, “I wonder what they have today?”

Considering they’ve just had tea, despite not having sampled any sweet biscuits, Felix isn’t particularly hungry, and neither should Sylvain be, given his fondness for sweets. Felix had seen him reach for several of the cookies, there’s no way he’s thinking about dinner. It’s an obvious ploy to change the subject. Whatever had Sylvain so heated, he’s refusing to share.

It can’t just be Linhardt’s social ineptitude. What he said bothered Sylvain inordinately, even if he was just stating facts.

Felix waits, standing still, staring Sylvain down, in hopes he’ll crack, share his thoughts. He doesn’t like letting Sylvain stew in his negative thoughts. It never ends well.

“Well?” Sylvain asks, affably but impatiently, stopping from his stride away towards the dining hall. Whatever he’s holding onto in his mind, he’s determined to keep it to himself.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, looking down at his feet, “You know I...” he trails off.

Sylvain should know right? That Felix is here to listen, if he wants to talk?

He glances back at up Sylvain, who stares evenly back, something like understanding in his eyes.

He knows.

“Never mind,” Felix says, shaking his head, “Yeah, I’m coming.” he says and follows, jogging after him.

When Sylvain wants to talk, Felix will be there to listen.

He just has to wait until he’s ready.


	9. Fish Out of Water (pt 2)

In the days after the awkward tea party Sylvain falls quieter, becoming slightly more distant even as he follows Felix around the monastery. Felix isn’t sure if it’s because what happened and what was said is weighing on him or if it’s because he’s run out of things to ask about what Felix is doing with each passing day.

It doesn’t help that Ferdinand had to refuse when Sylvain asked to take his horse for a ride to exercise her. Despite Ferdinand’s promise to take on the task himself, to ensure Sylvain’s beloved horse gets the exercise she needs to stay healthy, the refusal was enough to dampen Sylvain’s mood considerably, leaving him sullen, quiet, and irritable.

The novelty of Sylvain’s presence has faded by the end of his first week at the monastery. At this point, having Sylvain follow Felix around - since he’s unwilling to stay in his room yet uncomfortable wandering alone - begins to feel awkward, strange, and at times unwelcome. With him in a sullen, quiet mood makes it even worse. His constant presence as Felix runs errands and sorts out his equipment and supplies feels like having a constant babysitter, evaluating his duties and tasks. The foul mood Sylvain is desperately trying and failing to keep under wraps makes it feel as if Felix is working under a bubble, waiting to burst.

Despite it obviously causing him discomfort, Sylvain refuses to talk about it. Felix gives him as many opportunities as he can - seating him in secluded parts of the dining hall during meals, waiting patiently when Sylvain tends to his horse, trying to engage him in normal conversation - waiting for him to speak. Sylvain never does, sticking to superficial topics, poorly delivered jokes, asking Felix questions about his own thoughts so he can avoid talking about his own. In front of other Black Eagles - Dorothea, Bernadetta, Ferdinand, and even Linhardt - Sylvain manages to keep his animosity at bay, his easy smile falling into place, hiding his mood seamlessly whenever they engage him in conversation.

Felix can tell Sylvain is feeling his own discomfort with the situation, and isn’t taking the awkward sense of estrangement as well as he pretends to be. His longtime knowledge of Sylvain’s tells aside, it becomes more obvious when Felix is doing something that Sylvain watches with nothing better to do, as if boredom is spurring on his irritability.

“Are your sessions always like this?” Sylvain asks pointedly, while Felix is mid-training session with Yuri, who’s emerged from Abyss to explore the surface and see how Garreg Mach is faring for themself, “I thought you two were sparring.”

Yuri just smiles magnanimously at Sylvain from where they’re standing behind Felix, adjusting the angle of his sword arm in the middle of their lesson to demonstrate the latest sword technique they’ve been willing to share with him as a reward for his last victory.

Felix narrows his eyes at the trickster. He’s fully aware Yuri is just up here to sate their curiosity about how the Gautier heir is doing, wandering around the monastery, eager to pick up gossip about his impact on the daily going ons. Felix wanted to take the chance to spar with them above ground and he’s getting it, so he figures he can’t complain about Yuri’s presence making Sylvain’s irritability worse.

Sylvain’s initial meeting with Yuri for the first time since he’d arrived back at Garreg Mach had been awkward enough. Sylvain clearly didn’t remember enough about who Yuri was from back at the academy and Yuri clearly remembered too much about him in return. It was unbalanced and only made worse when it was apparent Felix’s familiarity with Yuri made Sylvain uncomfortable, given he didn’t know Yuri at all.

“Like what,” Felix asks, frowning at Sylvain.

“I dunno,” Sylvain says, from his position seated at the edge of the training grounds, waving his arms around absently, “So touchy-feely.”

Felix gives him a look of annoyance.

Yuri just looks amused, “Is there a problem with that, Gautier?” they ask.

Sylvain huffs, crossing his arms, “No? I guess not?” he asks, somehow still sounding accusing as he does.

“Then why are you asking?” Felix asks, unhappy at the interruption.

“Never seen a sparring session where you lay your hands all over your opponent like that before,” Sylvain mutters moodily, “That’s all.”

Yuri laughs, “Oooh,” they drawl, “ _I_ see.”

Felix doesn’t see, but Yuri doesn’t elaborate, only locking gazes with him and raising their eyebrows. Whatever it is, Yuri thinks it’s hilarious, judging by their expression, and they’re perfectly content leaving Felix out of it. Great. That’s fine. It’s not enough that Felix doesn’t know what exactly is bothering Sylvain, but the person who might have figured something out about it isn’t willing to share. Wonderful.

“We’re exchanging techniques, Sylvain,” Felix says irritably, “How am I supposed to get it right if Yuri doesn’t correct my stance?”

“Yeah, Gautier,” Yuri echoes, teasing, “How am I supposed to make sure Felix isn’t doing anything wrong without putting my hands on him to fix his atrocious positioning?” they ask as they do exactly that, giving Felix’s hip a short shove and kicking his left foot back into the correct ready position to move into the next form to ready the swing.

“Yuri,” Felix snaps, shaking their hands off to move himself in place as Sylvain narrows his eyes at them.

“Don’t lock your elbow like that, and your leg is in the wrong place,” Yuri responds simply, stepping back to give Felix the space to correct himself.

“Tsk,” Felix huffs, raising his sword arm. His left arm feels bereft without a shield on it, but he has to get used to going without again. Yuri doesn’t fight with a shield at all, favouring speed and evasion, aided by their mysterious relic of unknown origin. Given that, with this technique it’s probably best to go without.

Yuri walks him through the steps - the footwork in tandem with the correct angle of the swing - three times, each time more fluid, faster, before they stand opposite him and ask him to run through it himself, demonstrating how the action serves to feign a parry of a blade facing it before taking advantage of an opponent’s awkward hand positioning to redirect the sword to knock the blade out of their grip.

“I’m bored,” Sylvain declares, when Felix manages to disarm Yuri, correctly going through the form and the technique to make it happen.

His success is tempered by Sylvain’s rude announcement. Felix turns to glare at him, left hand planted on his hip, opening his mouth to tell him to shut up or leave.

“Then why don’t you step in the ring?” Yuri interrupts before Felix can tell Sylvain off, “I could use a practice bout against an experienced lancer,” they say smoothly, retrieving their fallen blade and cradling it in their palms, “Ferdinand can be fun, but if we spar too often his moves start becoming too familiar, and he’s so busy all the time anyway.”

Felix glances over at Sylvain, eyebrow raised. Getting Sylvain involved would certainly alleviate his boredom, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in seeing how Yuri fared against an experienced lance user. Sylvain may be reluctant to train, but certainly he’s good with a lance. Two years fighting for the Kingdom should only have improved his lancework from what it was at the academy.

“Yeah, no thanks,” Sylvain mutters irritably, drawing his knees up and scraping random patterns into the dirt, “I’ve been watching you for the last few... I don't know, hours? I can see what you’re capable of and I want no part in that.”

Given the challenge Yuri had posed to Felix, he supposes he should have foreseen Sylvain wouldn’t be keen to take part in a spar with them.

“Sylvain, I know how much you hate training. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to,” Felix says finally, impatiently.

“Yeah well, not like there’s much else to do here,” Sylvain responds, glaring at the floor.

“I can’t do anything about that,” Felix huffs irritably.

There has to be something Sylvain can do to occupy himself without gluing himself to Felix’s side.

“You read, don’t you, Gautier?” Yuri asks easily, swinging the training sword to heft it easily in their hands, “You can always spend some time in the library. Books are all the same as they’ve always been. I’m sure there’s some volumes you enjoyed from back in the academy.”

Sylvain glares at their feet, “I’m not allowed on the second floor,” he mutters sullenly.

Ah, Felix had forgotten that. The library being on the second floor means to get there would mean Sylvain would have to pass by a number of offices where imperial captains regularly have meetings and where Ferdinand commonly receives reports and Imperial intelligence. To simplify matters regarding risk of leaked intelligence, they’d simply banned Sylvain from the entire floor.

“...Oh,” Yuri says, mildly taken aback, “Well that’s a shame.”

Felix locks eyes with them, and they simply blink back, benignly. There’s another library Sylvain _could_ frequent to read, but Yuri’s deliberate refusal to mention it means they don’t want Sylvain in Abyss yet, for whatever reason. Felix wants to argue but it’s not his call to decide who’s allowed in the underground, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Sylvain spits out, ignorant of the silent conversation Felix and Yuri just had, his ire spilling out around him.

“You should bring that up with Ferdinand,” Yuri tells Felix pointedly.

Felix sighs, “...Yeah alright,” he agrees, “That’s a good idea.”

“Sure,” Sylvain says, just to be petulant, “Good idea.”

Felix gives an exasperated roll of his eyes, “Sylvain, just...”

Sylvain looks up at him, meeting his gaze evenly.

“If you can’t stand to be here, you can take a walk,” Felix says, gesturing to the door, “We’re almost done anyway.”

They’ve been at it for a while. Given the mid-afternoon hour they started at with an extensive bout of sparring before this break to exchange techniques, the dinner hour is soon approaching. They should be done in not too long a time. Plenty of time for Sylvain to take a walk to clear his head and return.

“Fine!” Sylvain huffs, upset but eager enough to get an excuse to leave, “I’m going to go take a walk. I’ll see you when you’re done with...” he waves awkwardly at them, an expression of chagrin on his face, “This.”

Then he strides off in a huff, shoving out the training ground doors and disappearing when they swing shut and slam behind him.

“...What’s his _problem_?” Felix asks absently, frustrated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Oh, who knows,” Yuri responds knowingly, walking around him to face him properly again, “Come on, show me one more time, I want to make sure you have it right and then maybe we’ll go one more bout before we call it a day.”

The promise of another bout with the trickster is a boon Felix can’t refuse so he takes on the proper stance and raises his sword with a grin, his earlier annoyance with Sylvain temporarily forgotten, “You’re on,” he declares, matching Yuri’s grin, and moves.

He gets two more bouts with Yuri after that - one he wins narrowly, and the second he loses when Yuri refuses to leave on an defeat, goading him to use his reason magic to match Yuri’s proficiency in faith magic, raising the stakes in their final bout.

When they’re done, Yuri shakes his hand and disappears as quickly as they had appeared, no doubt to clean themself up and return back to Abyss to do whatever it is they do. Felix is more sedate, feeling the ache of several good bouts, cleaning up the training grounds and walking off the lingering soreness from Yuri’s last nosferatu spell, a nasty counter against his own lackluster thunder spell. He’s been letting his spellwork go as of late, focusing too hard on regaining and maintaining his mastery with the sword. Maybe it’s time to get back into proper practice with his magic.

When he finally emerges from the training grounds the sky is dyed a glorious orange and Sylvain is standing outside the doors, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, head tipped down.

“Sylvain?” Felix asks, as the doors shut behind him.

“Hm?” Sylvain blinks back to awareness, looking over at him, “Oh,” he says, much more amicably than he had been when he left, “You’re done then?”

“Yes,” Felix responds cautiously, “How was your walk?”

“Fine,” Sylvain replies, pushing off the wall to stand beside him.

For a moment, Felix just stares at him as Sylvain glances to the side, looking uncertain. Felix is tempted to say he looks apologetic.

“Hey, I’m thinking...” Sylvain says off hand, “I should really pick up a lance again.”

Felix blinks, unsure where he’s going with that, “...Okay.”

Sylvain sighs, raising a hand to scratch the back of his head, ruffling his hair, “I know I’ve been saying I don’t want to spar with you, but... it’s probably a bad idea to go out of practice, considering...” he shrugs awkwardly. Felix guesses there’s no delicate way to just say ‘the war’.

Felix doesn’t disagree but to hear Sylvain voice it and suggest what he’s suggesting is strange. It’s nice, but strange.

“You think you’re down for a few rounds tomorrow?” Sylvain asks, a crooked grin on his face.

Felix can’t help the excited leap in his chest at the question. Sylvain’s obvious reluctance to spar has been understandable, but disappointing all the same. Was he annoyed today during Felix’s spar with Yuri because he felt out of practice? Regardless, the fact he’s offering to spar with Felix again is exciting. It’s been so long since he’s had a proper bout with Sylvain; he’s eager to face a decent lance fighter again.

“Of course,” Felix replies with a smile of his own, trying to temper it so he doesn’t look too eager, “If you are.”

“Then that’s settled,” Sylvain says, relaxing, his own shoulders falling from their tense position, a matching grin on his face, “Tomorrow afternoon?” he asks.

“Sure, Sylvain.”

“Alright, cool.”

They stare at each other a little longer, unsure of where to go from there.

“Uh,” Sylvain says eloquently, with a sheepish grin, “You should wash up,” he says, backing away to give Felix space to go where he needs to go, “I’ll... meet you in the dining hall.”

“Okay,” Felix responds with a bemused look as Sylvain turns to go, taking care to give a little awkward wave before he departs.

He watches him walk off for a bit before he turns and heads towards the dormitories himself to grab his things before heading to the baths, eager to clean himself off of the sweat and grit from a hard training session.

Sylvain hasn’t voiced what’s been weighing him down the last few days quite yet, but if he’s willing to spar maybe he’s beginning to work past it.

Maybe things are picking up. Hopefully, it’s a sign of improvement.

In any case, tomorrow’s spar aside, Felix ought to approach Ferdinand about finding things for Sylvain to do or at least see if there’s any way to give Sylvain access to the books. If the last few days have shown him anything, it’s that boredom will only make Sylvain’s mood worse.

**~o.O.o~**

Three days after Felix goes 4-2 in six bouts against Sylvain in the training grounds, two weeks into the Harpstring moon, a sizable force of imperial troops return to Garreg Mach from their work west of the monastery doing what they can to suppress what’s left of the Western Church while assimilating what land they can from Kingdom hands, just out of Arianrhod’s sphere of influence.

With them come Caspar and Ashe.

Felix, and following him, Sylvain, stumble across them in the outdoor corridor between the entrance hall and the reception hall while he’s finishing a cross-monastery errand, running the latest order of fortified steel lances from the blacksmith to the armoury. Linhardt is already present chatting with the two of them, leaning comfortably on Caspar, who doesn’t seem to notice his old friend’s extra weight.

“Ashe,” Felix greets, stopping with the unwieldy bunch of lances under his arm, pulling them back to plant them on the ground, covered tips pointed to the sky, so he doesn’t knock them into anyone with an unfortunate accidental swing, “Caspar. You’re back.”

“Oh, yes!” Ashe greets back with a delighted grin that Caspar mirrors from where he’s standing beside him, “Felix! And Sylvain!” Ashe exclaims, “You’re really here!”

“Yup,” Sylvain says, popping the ‘p’ as he gives a small awkward smile, “Sure am,” he confirms, “How are you, Ashe?”

“Good,” Ashe replies with a nervous little smile, “I’m... doing alright. How are you? Felix said you were here in his last letter to me,” his eyes dart over to Felix then back to Sylvain, “But I’m not sure how much of what he wrote was true.”

“All of it was true,” Felix says flatly.

Ashe laughs, a little titter, “That can’t be right,” he says, “You wrote that Sylvain just wandered up to the monastery gates one day and said he wanted to join the Empire!”

Felix looks over at Sylvain, a scowl on his face. Caspar and Linhardt also look over at him, Caspar curious, Linhardt bored.

“Uh...” Sylvain flounders under the sudden scrutiny, “Yeah,” he admits, “I did that.”

“You did?” Ashe asks in disbelief, “Sylvain!” he exclaims, in shock, perhaps, or because he can’t think of anything else to say to that.

It’s still absurd, no matter how many times it’s brought up.

“What?” Sylvain asks defensively, crossing his arms, “It was the best idea I had to approach without being shot!”

Felix rolls his eyes.

“No, I...” Ashe stammers, trying to reassure him through his own confusion and surprise, “Well I’m just... surprised! Is all.”

Sylvain blinks. Felix doesn’t know exactly what to make of the statement. He supposes it is surprising that Sylvain left the Kingdom to join the Empire, to those that haven’t been present to know the facts of the matter. Why he’s here isn’t exactly common knowledge. Ashe doesn’t know every detail about Sylvain’s circumstances for being at Garreg Mach. There was only so much Felix felt comfortable writing down.

The rest is Sylvain’s story to tell.

“Well,” Sylvain says eventually, with a half-hearted splay of his arms, “Here I am.”

“Anyways, I’m glad you’re well,” Ashe says genuinely, with a little smile, “It’s very nice to see you.”

“Thanks,” Sylvain returns awkwardly, “Good to see you too.”

“Hey, I have a question,” Caspar pipes up from where he’s standing, hands on his hips.

“Uh,” Sylvain responds eloquently, reluctantly, unsure of what to make of the warrior, “Sure, what.”

“So you’re on our side now?” Caspar asks directly, shifting his weight, to Linhardt’s chagrin, as he also has to move to maintain his lean on the shorter man, “Like, you’re gonna fight for us too?”

Sylvain shuffles awkwardly, hunching over slightly, “Yes? Er, not... exactly?” he says, subtly turning so Felix is a bit more between him and Caspar.

“So what,” Caspar laughs, “You’re a freeloader or something?”

Sylvain frowns, opening his mouth to object, but doesn’t voice anything, gaze drifting up in thought before he snaps his mouth shut again. He looks to Felix for assistance.

Linhardt is the one to speak up, saying, “Caspar,” in what some might call a scolding tone, but to Felix is just a neutral statement Linhardt just says sometimes when Caspar says something blunt and thoughtless.

“He’s not allowed a weapon,” Felix says, saving Sylvain from the struggle of explaining his situation, “They won’t let him fight on the battlefield, but he’s allowed to roam around. He won’t return to the Kingdom, so... you can call it a probation period.”

Caspar raises an eyebrow, “Ferdinand’s cool with that?”

“Hey,” Sylvain says with a huff, “He’s the one who makes the rules, I just follow them.”

Caspar frowns, considering. Ashe doesn’t say anything, watching the proceedings, neutral but wary, cataloguing all his observations in his head.

“You trust him?” Caspar says, looking at Felix.

“Yes,” he replies simply. There’s nothing else to say about it.

Caspar nods, considering, “...Alright,” he concludes with a nod, “That’s good enough for me.”

Sylvain turns his head in a jerk, looking at him in confusion, “It is?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Chyeah,” Caspar says, waving a hand, “Felix would kick your ass anyway if you weren’t really on our side.”

Felix stifles a laugh. How flattering.

“Well,” Ashe interjects, giving a smile of relief, “At the least it means we won’t have to fight you on the battlefield. That’s a relief, you know. I’m glad you’re here.”

Sylvain shuffles awkwardly, unsettled and unsure of what to make of Caspar, “Um...” he says uncertainly, “Sure.”

“Well enough about that,” Caspar says, forcefully shoving the topic of conversation aside, pointing aggressively at Felix, “You!”

Felix blinks, “Me,” he says back. He’s not sure exactly what Caspar wants at this point.

“You owe me a good spar, Felix!” the warrior yells; a challenge out of the blue.

Felix shifts his grip on the lances he’s supposed to be delivering, “...I’m not objecting,” he says, “But I’m not sure why I owe you.”

“Because you won last time!” Caspar declares, indignant, “I’m not letting up until I beat you again!”

“Hmph,” Felix turns away. Of course, Caspar’s never satisfied unless they’re even or if he’s winning. Felix can relate, but on the other side of it sometimes it’s excessive. Maybe this is how Yuri sees him.

“Come on, Felix,” Caspar needles him, “I’ve been waiting months! Last time I was here nobody let me see you so I couldn’t challenge you at all!”

“Caspar, he was injured,” Linhardt reminds him.

Felix isn’t sure how Linhardt knows that, but he supposes gossip travels far. There had been a long period of time he was unconscious, if he thinks back to it.

He tries not to think back on it often.

“Yeah, and before that _I_ was injured!” Caspar argues back, “Now we’re both here, and neither of us are injured! This is the perfect time! I’ve been itching for a good contest for _months_. It’s so hard training with an archer!”

“Hey!” Ashe cries indignantly, “I gave as good as I could! Don’t act like I didn’t beat you a few times.”

“Yeah but it’s not the same,” Caspar complains, “Felix is the only other guy here willing to throw down man to man! I mean, Balthus too, but he’s never at the training grounds!”

Linhardt gives a weary look at the concept of brawling while Ashe continues to frown, insulted. Sylvain just laughs, “Wow, I don’t even know what to say about that,” he says, bemused.

“You’re telling me,” Ashe mutters in response.

“Shouldn’t you guys be reporting to Ferdinand or something?” Sylvain cuts in.

“Nah,” Caspar waves him off, “General whathisname’s got it. Ashe still has to, uh, sort out all his papers before he can really give a report.”

“It’s General Dobromir, Caspar,” Ashe corrects, exasperated. It’s probably been an ongoing thing for the last however long they’ve been away.

“Whatever,” Caspar says, crossing his arms petulantly, “He never remembered my name, so I’m not gonna remember his.”

Ashe just sighs at that.

“Alright, Caspar,” Felix says, amused, “If you want a spar, I can give you one. As soon as I finish this.” He pats the bunch of lances he’s holding onto.

“Yes!” Caspar jumps in excitement, dislodging Linhardt from his person, “Here let me help,” he says, reaching for the bundle.

Felix grabs them and steps back, “Please don’t,” he orders, and takes hold of them, tipping them so they’re nestled comfortably under an arm.

“Uh,” Sylvain speaks up, looking between Felix, Caspar, and Ashe, “What should I...” he trails off.

Felix glances at him. Sylvain doesn’t look like he wants to spend another stretch of time in the training grounds, but without Felix, he tends to not know what to do with himself.

Linhardt perks up, “Well if you’re free-”

“Not that,” Sylvain refutes him instantly, shaking his head.

“Um, well,” Ashe speaks up, and Sylvain jerks his head round to meet his gaze, eager for anything that isn’t helping Linhardt with whatever research he wants to do, “Would you like to... catch up, Sylvain? Felix didn’t write much in his letter. If you’re willing, we can spend some time together to chat, at least before dinner.”

Felix looks expectantly at Sylvain. Sylvain meets his gaze, then looks back at Ashe, “You know what, yeah,” he says, considering, “Let’s do that, it’s been a long time Ashe.”

Caspar reaches over to thump the back of his hand against the tome strapped to Linhardt’s side, “What about you Linhardt?”

Linhardt sighs, looking only marginally put out at Sylvain’s refusal, given his consistent avoidance of having anything to do with Linhardt’s research, “I suppose it is a good time for a mid-afternoon nap.”

“Right,” Felix says, dubiously. Linhardt’s propensity for napping still mystifies him, even after the last few years knowing him, “Well, I guess I’ll see you at dinner then, Sylvain?” he asks, looking over at him.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Sylvain agrees easily, waving him off as Felix starts to depart with Caspar following him, “See you.”

“Ashe,” Felix nods in farewell.

“I’ll see you at dinner as well, Felix,” the sniper responds, an easy smile on his lips as he starts off towards the dormitories, Sylvain trailing behind him.

Felix watches them go until Sylvain tips his head down, conversing with Ashe as they walk off together.

“Aw man, I’m raring to go!” Caspar declares from beside him as they head to the armoury, punching the air in front of him exuberantly, “Let’s do this! What do you say, brawling first or do you wanna go axe to sword as a warmup?”

Felix gives a small smirk, good naturedly, “Weapons first,” he responds, “Let’s see if you’re any better with an axe than you were last time.”

**~o.O.o~**

Caspar’s enthusiasm for training makes it easy to lose track of time in the training grounds. With neither of them willing to end the session in a loss, they swap from weapons to fists to gauntlets and back again, before Caspar opts to mix it up and demand they both try their hand at fighting the other, one with a weapon, the other unarmed.

By the time the two of them emerge from the grounds, they’ve broken three wooden practice weapons, each of them nursing several big bruises, and neither of them have a good idea of what the score between them is. The dinner hour is nigh. Felix tolerates Caspar’s chatter as they clean themselves up, washing off the sweat and grit, before walking to the dining hall together.

Dinner is a raucous affair. With so many Black Eagles back at Garreg Mach to roost, everyone is drawn to the dining hall, eager to take part in a rare chance to spend time together. Even Ferdinand has found time to come to the dining hall instead of taking dinner in his office, and Bernadetta as well emerges from her room to enjoy the company of her long time companions for one lively night.

It’s easy to get swept up in the festive mood of the impromptu reunion. Felix has little to say but engages in merry conversation when spoken to, as everyone swaps updates and news about the going ons in their lives, then gossip from within the monastery halls, before Linhardt offers some details about events in Enbarr.

When Caspar shares an enthusiastic recount of his feats over the last few months to his peers, interrupted only occasionally by Linhardt’s deadpan skepticism of what must be embellished events and Ashe’s reluctant confirmation of what must be true, Felix manages to catch Sylvain’s eye at the the end of the table.

Arriving with Caspar meant Felix essentially had no choice but to sit next to him while the warrior chattered beside him, excited to be back at the monastery. Ashe and Sylvain arrived later to the dining hall, and so ended up at the other end of the table after seats had filled with other Black Eagles eager to spend a meal together.

Sylvain looks pensive, his meal half finished but pushed away, arms crossed on the table as he watches the rest of the table converse. Felix raises a brow at him, enquiring on his mood without words. Sylvain gives a brief smile and shakes his head minutely, waving him off as if to say he’s fine.

Felix frowns. His smile looked stilted.

Ashe says something to Sylvain, catching his attention, and in that moment Caspar elbows Felix in his middle of his story, forcing him to pay attention again as he describes, in unnecessary detail, the mechanics of downing a cavalier by kicking the horse he’s riding in the face.

Felix scoffs and rolls his eyes. Caspar may have the gumption to full on kick a horse in the face to take down its rider, but Felix has grown up with too many cavalrymen with proud and fiery steeds to even consider that a viable risk to take.

As time passes and dinner ends Ferdinand departs, either to continue working into the night or to take some time to himself to read over a cup of tea. Caspar only gets rowdier, more impassioned in his chatter, especially when Ashe manages to free a bottle of wine from the kitchens to pass around. Dorothea is eager to take part in whatever Caspar wants to do next, goading him on, while Bernadetta, despite the rowdiness, stays seated between Felix and Dorothea, pleased to simply bask in the atmosphere. Linhardt looks all but ready to doze off but is perfectly content to do it at the table at Caspar’s side.

Felix mostly watches everyone else enjoy themselves, feeling content, taking part when he’s prompted to converse. As time passes, however, he finds himself watching Sylvain.

It’s strange, to see Sylvain so quiet in the face of such a social outing. It’s a frank and surprising reversal of what it was like for them at the academy. Now it’s Felix sitting near the heart of the party while Sylvain sits at the fringes, looking on, contemplative and maybe even slightly put out on the sidelines. Sylvain has never had a problem before with inserting himself into a social situation, to take the reins and guide enthusiastic conversation himself. It seems now he’s reluctant to even try.

The longer the night goes on, the more sullen he looks, arms pillowing his head, gaze fixed more on the surface of the table than on the people around him. When Bernadetta excuses herself, finally overwhelmed by the energy, Sylvain’s gaze flickers her way but he doesn’t say a word of farewell or wave goodbye. When Dorothea leans over to ask him a question, whatever his response is drives her to move to the other side of the table and pointedly ignore him the rest of the night. When Yuri arrives to greet Ashe warmly, with their wolves in tow- Hapi leaning over Linhardt to steal sweets from the plate of desserts left on the table, Balthus greeting Caspar enthusiastically and engaging in a swift arm wrestling contest, and Constance sweeping in to sit next to Dorothea and speak in hushed but delighted tones - Sylvain downright scowls, keeping his gaze pointed down.

Once, Felix meets his eye, only to find Sylvain staring stonily back at him. Felix blinks and there’s a smile again, but the look in his eyes remains flinty.

Eventually, Sylvain has enough of whatever he’s seeing, rebuffing Ashe’s concerned enquiries until he resorts to simply ignoring him. When Ashe is called back over by Caspar to witness whatever he’s up to with Balthus, Sylvain stands and leaves without a word, exiting the dining hall in the direction of the fishing pond into the dark.

Felix frowns. Whatever enjoyment he’s had with the others has simmered down already, around the time of Bernadetta’s departure. Knowing Sylvain is obviously upset makes it hard to stay interested in Caspar and Balthus throwing each other around between rounds sharing drinks from the same bottle of aged wine.

“It’s getting late,” he says to provide a reason for his departure, making to stand, “I should go.”

The others give their theatrical objections to another one leaving, but bid him farewells and ‘see you tomorrows’ all the same. Ashe’s smile is bright and promises a long chat in the future, as they usually do when they happen to come together again - a habit they built as former Blue Lions as the war dragged on.

Dorothea meets his eye and gives him a concerned look and a none too subtle glance at the doorway leading out to the fishing pond, before she gives a minute shake of her head.

He meets her gaze and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring flash of a stiff smile. It does little to ease her concern and the furrow in her brow only deepens.

When he leaves, her eyes follow him as he goes.

Sylvain hasn’t gotten far from the dining hall. Felix had half expected him to return straight to the dormitories, maybe to weather his mood in the privacy of his room, but the older man has decided to spend some time by the pond instead, standing at the edge of the dock staring into the water.

“Sylvain,” Felix calls as he approaches, striding swiftly down the stone staircase to approach him from behind.

Sylvain doesn’t turn around, only huffing irritably, looking up from the water to stare, instead, at the wall on the other side of the wall and beyond at the sky. “You don’t need to follow me every time I leave, you know.”

Felix hesitates at the tone of his voice, coming to a stop behind him, staring at his back, “...I know,” he responds, “I was just...” he trails off.

He just wanted to make sure Sylvain was alright. In the last week, Sylvain has been more and more moody, irritable. He just wanted to see if there was anything he could do, this time around.

“...Whatever,” Sylvain says flatly, dismissive, turning slightly to look at him from the corner of his eye, “You should go back in, you were having fun.”

Felix blinks. Was he? “I’m good,” he says, taking a step forward but stopping again when Sylvain doesn’t turn to face him, “I... wasn’t doing much, and there’s only so much of Caspar I can handle in a day.”

“Sure,” Sylvain says monotonously, “Whatever you say.”

Felix shifts, uncertain, resting his left hand on the pommel of his sword to steady himself, biting his lip. It’s been a long time since he’s had to contend with an upset Sylvain. Usually the other man smooths over his edges, dons a mask to avoid showing how upset he really is. Often it’s more a struggle to get him to admit he’s unhappy at all. Felix can’t say with confidence he remembers the best approach when Sylvain can’t even be bothered to try to hide his upset.

“Is something wrong, Sylvain?” he asks quietly.

Sylvain exhales irritably, “Nothing wrong,” he lies, “It’s fine.”

“You were snappish with Dorothea, and you wouldn’t even speak with Ashe, at the end of the night,” Felix retorts, trying to keep his voice low, “You’ve been more and more quiet in the last few days. Something’s bothering you.”

Sylvain huffs a bitter laugh, “A lot of things are bothering me, Felix,” he says into the night, “I’m a prisoner of war trapped in an imperial stronghold and the Empire’s two years into a war against my homeland.” he turns around, spreading his arms, “ _Everything_ is bothering me.”

Felix frowns and tilts his head, fighting back the defensive flare of hurt. He’s not unsympathetic to Sylvain’s ire, but if being at Garreg Mach were the only reason he’s annoyed, it would have reflected more at the beginning of his release. Sylvain chose to come and knows better than anyone his reasons and the events of what happened to land him here. Being angry about that now isn’t productive. That aside, his frustrations didn’t emerge until the last week, so Felix knows it’s more than that, if it’s that at all.

“What?” Sylvain snaps, annoyed, when Felix just stares at him, considering.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, looking him in the eye. It’s time for a direct approach, “What is this about?”

Sylvain just glares at him, arms crossed, reluctant to engage.

“What’s wrong?” Felix asks again, trying to keep his voice gentle. It’s not easy for him. He isn’t inclined to that tone of speech.

Whatever Sylvain hears is enough for him to lower his barriers, just enough to reply. He shuffles and glances off to the side into the water, “You’re awfully close with a lot of them, is all,” he mumbles, “Empire people.”

Felix blinks, “...We were classmates at the academy, Sylvain,” he replies simply, “We’ve been working together for many moons. Of course we’re friends.”

Sylvain doesn’t respond, keeping his gaze off to the side, into the black of the pond water.

“They’re not all from the Empire,” Felix continues in the silence, “You _know_ Ashe, and Yuri and their people are Abyssians before they are Empire allies.” He pauses, watching Sylvain as he shifts his posture and continuing determinedly to not look him in the eye.

A sudden thought occurs to Felix, and he hesitates to voice it because the idea of it is ludicrous, but when Sylvain doesn’t speak, Felix decides he has to give it voice.

“You’re not...” he hesitates, “Are you _jealous_?” he asks in disbelief.

Sylvain jerks, his head snapping up to meet Felix’s gaze before instantly darting away, to glare at the fishing shack instead, “No,” he denies quickly. It could be a lie, or it could not be. Felix doesn’t really want to push him on it.

“Then what is it?” he asks instead, patiently.

Sylvain shakes his head, crossing his arms harder, hunching over himself as he stands. He huffs a bitter laugh, “I just think it’s funny, that we’re fighting the same war, but your side seems to be having a much better time.”

A better _time_? What is that supposed to mean?

Felix blinks in disbelief, trying to think of something reasonable to say and coming up entirely blank, “What?” he asks faintly.

Sylvain sighs, as if Felix is the one being obtuse, “I’m sure you don’t know, being on this side and all, but it’s _awful_ in Fhirdiad, Felix,” he says suddenly. And Felix can’t do much but listen, to try to find out what exactly Sylvain’s trying to get at, even as a small voice inside him starts to cry out that it's time to flee. “Faerghus is _miserable_ ,” Sylvain continues, gesturing with his hand to punctuate his feelings on the matter, “And I’m not talking like the usual misery, it’s worse. It’s just grim faced anger, invoking the wrath of the Goddess, war planning and fighting and training and all that over again and again. There’s no _time_ for tea, or dinnertime chats, or reading, or trying new skills, because if you’re sitting idle you have time to better yourself, so it’s off to the training grounds or the battlefield or Sreng with you!”

Sylvain’s voice ricochets off the walls of the area, bouncing off the stones of the floor, the brick and glass of the greenhouse. The sharp crack of his words bounce round long after he shuts his mouth, after he’s reeled his expressive arms back in again into the crossed position of an impressive sulk. All of it, pointed ire, accusing, at Felix, caught on the middle of the dock, facing him.

“So Faerghus is a miserable place in wartime,” Felix summarizes, feeling a coil of dread, anxiety bubble up as it usually does when it comes to talk about Faerghus in his presence. But he’s still not sure what the point Sylvain is trying to make is, “What does that have to do with... those in the Empire being able to find some sense of normalcy between battles? Just because the Kingdom is incapable of joy in wartime doesn’t make it the Empire’s fault that they can find distractions from fighting.”

Sylvain outright laughs, but it’s more of an angry outburst than one of amusement, “But it _is_ your fault!” he cries, meeting his gaze again, accusing, “The Empire started this war!”

A beat of silence as Felix bears the brunt of his ire. The coil of dread is heating inside him, making way for indignant anger, but he has to keep a lid on his temper or he and Sylvain won’t get anywhere. With Sylvain like this, it won’t do if both of them lose their temper.

He didn’t start this war - the Emperor did, perhaps, from the built up frustrations over generations with the Church and their overarching reach over all affairs in Fódlan. Regardless, war broke out, and he’s here because he believes in the vision the Emperor has for the future of the land. Faerghus being miserable - yes the Empire contributed - but that’s not his fault. The Kingdom has always been, in some ways, an unhappy place. He knows it in his bones. He’s _lived_ it. Or has Sylvain forgotten where Felix is from too?

“...So we did,” Felix says evenly, “But you’ve seen the state of the Church, Sylvain. You know the sorry mess the Kingdom is. Things need to change. This is what has to be done to see it happen.”

Sylvain scoffs, turning away, “Goddess,” he gripes, “You really bought into all her horse shit didn’t you.”

Felix bites back his angry retort and turns away as well. He can’t talk to Sylvain like this. There isn’t a point. They won’t get anywhere like this. “I’m not going to talk about this with you,” Felix declares, making to leave. They can revisit this tomorrow when Sylvain has a cooler head. “I know you don’t necessarily agree with Edelgard, but you’re here now, Sylvain. Discussing this isn’t going to get us anywhere. I know my side. You need to sort out yours.”

With that parting shot, he makes to leave, striding over the planks of the dock to make his way back to the dormitories.

“To think,” Sylvain calls after him, accusatory, his voice stopping him when his boots touch stone, “The whole time, Felix, over in Fhirdiad we were worried about you,” he scoffs, “Every _day_ in this war as Faerghus suffered, we wondered ‘hey, if this side is so bad, how is Felix faring? Are they treating him well? Does he even want to fight for them? Does he want to come back but they won’t let him?’” Sylvain stomps on the dock, taking heavy steps towards him before stopping at the center of the structure, ”Turns out we didn’t need to worry after all! Because you’re clearly doing fine!”

Felix takes a deep breath, holds it, and releases it before turning around, to face his old friend where he is, “...What’s your point, Sylvain?” he asks quietly, a note of warning in his tone.

Sylvain sneers, “If I’d have known you were having this much fun on this side, maybe I should have sided with the Empire earlier.”

The floor drops out from under Felix at his words. A chill descends and settles in his gut, spreading through him to numb his limbs, He tightens his grip on his sword to hold himself steady, feeling himself tense, his body coiled in response to Sylvain’s words, ready to fight or flee.

“Fun.” he echoes faintly, hardly able to push it out his lips.

“Well, isn’t that what you’d describe it?” Sylvain scoffs, “Sharing gossip over meals, sitting for tea, playing drinking games, sharing sword tricks, counting spars for fun!” he recounts, each point punctuated by a slap of the side of his right hand into the palm of his left, “It’s obvious you’ve all been doing this here for ages! You’re having the time of your life, Felix. I’ve never seen you so happy, and we’re in the middle of a war!”

Words fail him. He doesn’t know what to say, and his frantic mind is so muddled with upset feelings he can’t even conjure up a thought of where to start.

 _Happy_? The time of his _life_? Is that what Sylvain thinks? That Felix has been having _fun_ as the war waged round them? That warfare and death and all the _baggage_ he has fighting his homeland is enjoyable because he’s on _this side_?

“Well?” Sylvain presses, a crack of condemnation through the air.

Felix wets his lips, “So that’s what you think?” he asks faintly, pushing the words out past the well of anger beginning to settle in his throat, “That I sided with the Empire for a bit of _fun_?”

Sylvain scoffs, “What else am I supposed to think?!” he snaps, “I’ve been watching you work for two weeks, Felix, and yeah: you train, and run errands, make sure all your affairs are in order, but you seem to have all this time just to make nice with friends and have tea. We’re at war and all this just makes it look like the Empire has it easy.”

The Empire has it _easy_? Is that what Sylvain thinks? That the endless shift of battle lines barely moving in any meaningful direction, failed sieges, and the cost of it all counted in lives, morale, hope, and livelihoods is easy?

That he risks his life and watches his friends risks theirs, unknowing if it will be the last time he sees them, uncertain if any of their deaths will be worth it; that’s easy?

That he turned on his homeland and had to bear the condemnation for it as the son of the highest ranking noble house in the Kingdom, even from his allies; is easy?

That every day he was ordered to fight he knew he might face people he once knew and had to grapple with the reality that he’d have to strike them down or die for hesitating? _Easy_?

Felix barks out a laugh, an angry sound of disbelief, “You think that just because I have friends here,” he says, voice rising with each word, closer and closer to an outright yell, “Because I get along with my old classmates from the academy, leaving my friends, my family, my home, to fight against the Kingdom is _easy_?”

Sylvain doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t back down. Eyes still blazing with anger, but buffered back into silence, waiting to hear what else Felix has to say before he fires back.

“You have _no idea_ what I’ve given up to be here,” Felix snarls, taking measured steps towards the other man, his anger spilling forth, making itself known, “You don’t know _anything_ about what I’ve had to sacrifice in order to live for what I believe in,” he stops in front of Sylvain, a scant foot between them, glaring right into the other man’s eyes, “This is a _war_ , Sylvain. If you think everything you’ve seen here at Garreg Mach represents everything I have to face as a soldier on this side, then you’re even stupider than I thought.”

Sylvain takes a step back, something flashing across his eyes. Felix is too angry to try to figure out what it is. All he sees is that Sylvain looks like he wants to back down, no doubt to diffuse, as he always does when the the situation gets too heated, but Felix won’t let him. Sylvain has said his piece, now Felix will ensure he hears him say his own.

“Just because Fhirdiad was a miserable place for _you_ to be, doesn’t make my life here at Garreg Mach a place of _fun_ ,” Felix spits, his anger continuing to boil over, bubbling to distract from the hurt, the guilt, and everything else he’s kept down over the last two years, emerging once again, unearthed by Sylvain’s accusations, “Me finding a place to belong in the Empire doesn’t make whatever awful time you had on the other side _my_ fault.”

Sylvain just stares at him. The fury is bleeding from his expression but the damage is done.

There’s so much more Felix wants to say, wants Sylvain to hear, but he can’t find the words in the mess of upset in his mind. It’s all formless thoughts and negative emotion interspersed with outrage and anger. He’s struggling to make any sort of sense beyond his own understanding that he’s hurt, he’s angry, and he wants Sylvain to hurt too.

For a long while they just stare at each other, Felix glaring at Sylvain, mouth opening and closing as he tries to say something, anything, but nothing comes up. His eyes start to burn and water, and mortifyingly, he thinks tears might actually fall, so he turns away swiftly, before Sylvain can catch sight of them.

“...I have to go,” Felix says as evenly as he can, swallowing back whatever’s threatening to well up. He needs to escape, he can’t keep looking at Sylvin. If he stands here, one second longer, the anger will overwhelm him and it will just end in disaster.

He starts to go, taking hurried steps over the dock, fleeing as fast as he can while maintaining whatever grace he can as he does it. He’s not running away. He’s just leaving.

Sylvain reaches for him, but fails, then makes to follow, boots rushing over the dock, “Felix!” he calls, something like regret in his voice.

Felix has no patience for empty apologies. Sylvain can’t pretend he didn’t mean every word in order to get back on Felix’s good side and soothe his anger. That won’t work on him.

He spins round where he is on the stone, “No, Sylvain!” he orders, swinging his arm around to ward him off, slapping his outstretched hand aside.

Sylvain just stares at him, mouth open, with nothing to say. Felix meets his gaze for a moment. Just long enough to see the remorse settle in on his face.

Then he spins back round and stalks off, veering away from the dormitories to rush elsewhere in the monastery, seeking somewhere else to be as far away from Sylvain as he can manage.

Sylvain watches him go. He doesn’t follow.

**~o.O.o~**

Felix goes to sleep angry and wakes up upset. Even after a late night spent up, taking out his anger and frustration and spite on a practice dummy in the knight’s hall - slamming a dulled iron practice sword against it again and again and again, his crest flaring to life more often than not, lighting up the dark on the hall in flashes, until both sword and dummy were rendered irreparable - it’s not enough to douse the flames of his anger.

Even simply returning to the dorms after his angry training session, seeing Sylvain’s closed door at the end of the hall was enough to fan the flames of his ire anew, forcing him to dash into his own rooms and slam the door behind him.

And again, when he wakes up in the morning at the crack of dawn, once he leaves his room and catches sight of the door at the end of the hall again, all of it returns: his anger, his frustration, his hurt.

He doesn’t want to talk to Sylvain. He doesn’t even want to see him right now with how angry he is. Staying at the monastery means that he will, inevitably, have to, given Sylvain’s freedom to roam. He knows Sylvain will seek him out; when they’ve argued in the past, Sylvain usually extends the olive branch first.

Right now though? Felix doesn’t want to see the olive branch extended. He’s not ready for it. He’d never be able to accept it, not before he says some choice words that set it on fire in Sylvain’s outstretched hand.

He can’t be here, he decides. He needs to leave Garreg Mach.

With that conclusion reached, Felix returns to his room and starts to pack his travel pack, then he heads to the dining hall, to ask for provisions.

Once he has what he needs, he charges forward and heads to the second floor of the main building, to find the perfect excuse to leave.

“Tell me you have a job for me,” Felix orders, his pack over his shoulder, striding purposefully into Ferdinand’s office through his open door.

Ferdinand jumps, not expecting his company, and nearly spills his morning tea, “...Good morning, Felix,” he says carefully, setting his cup aside and gently pushing his morning pastry off his papers, “How are you?” he asks.

Felix ignores his attempts to slow him down, “Something, anything, Ferdinand,” he continues, “Something just... not here at Garreg Mach.”

“Did something happen?” Ferdinand asks. He still hasn’t reached for his logbook nor any of his notes. Felix knows he has things he needs done, so he needs to be looking for a task now that he can give Felix.

“No,” Felix denies, then winces because that’s too obvious, “Yes,” he amends, then shakes his head, “It’s... I need something to do.”

Ferdinand just stares at him, watching carefully as Felix shuffles, tense, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he stands before him, arms crossed.

“Please,” Felix bites out. He’s not begging. He’s asking.

Ferdinand doesn’t look convinced, but must recognize Felix won’t take no for an answer, because he glances down, reaching for his logbook and flipping idly through it, “I have a message that needs delivery to General Ladislava, at the Great Bridge,” he says slowly, “Sooner rather than later, but it’s not so urgent I require a flier.”

Felix perks up, standing at attention, stilling his fidgeting to show his willingness to take on the task.

Playing messenger is not a role he's done before. It's probably not a job befitting of his rank, but he's not an ordinary general. Without a battalion, he has extra freedoms for what he can do - Ferdinand must realize that. How hard could delivering a letter be?

“If you are willing to ride at a fairly quick pace,” Ferdinand continues, finding what he’s looking for in his book, “We can ideally have a response from our forces at the Great Bridge within one week’s time.”

“I’ll do it,” Felix says instantly.

Riding isn’t his favourite thing to do. He’s a decent rider - trained because it’s all but a necessary skill in his upbringing - but he doesn’t love it. Horses are temperamental beasts. He’s always found it awkward, trying to bond with one, difficult to trust that it will listen to his nonverbal commands. But he can do it.

“It’s almost nonstop riding, Felix,” Ferdinand warns, perhaps in a final attempt to make him reconsider, “You would need to swap horses at the Great Bridge for the return trip.”

“I said I’ll do it,” Felix snaps, impatiently.

Ferdinand frowns. He has every right to call him out for his behaviour as his commander, but doesn’t, allowing him this, “...Very well,” he agrees, “On one condition.”

Maybe he’ll mete out punishment for this after all. It doesn’t matter, Felix can worry about that when he gets back, what’s important is he gets to leave, “Name it,” he says.

“You sit down for tea with me when you report back to discuss what is bothering you,” Ferdinand says firmly.

It’s not a request to take tea.

This is a demand.

“Ferdinand,” Felix grumbles.

“I’m not asking, Felix,” Ferdinand says sharply, before he can argue. With the tone of his voice, it’s not really so much about the tea, as it is a one-on-one meeting between two generals; or, perhaps more accurately: one general and whatever Felix’s undefined rank is, given the permissions he has to order people around, but his reluctance to actually take command of battalions in battle.

Felix heaves a sigh, “...Fine,” he agrees, “When do I leave?”

“Any time today, though I imagine you want to depart as soon as possible,” Ferdinand muses as he stands, rounding the desk to meet him at the door, “I’ll have a horse readied. Go to the armoury, it’d be best to make sure at least one of your blades is new. Meet me at the stables, and I’ll give you the missive I need delivered as well as further instructions.”

Ferdinand ushers him out, then follows, shutting his office door behind, logbook still in hand as he readies himself to march to the stables.

“...Thanks,” Felix manages to say as genuinely as he can, before he turns and leaves to obey, rushing to the armoury as instructed.

The other man just nods, watching him go.

**~o.O.o~**

The ride from Garreg Mach to the Great Bridge of Myrrdin, if done through Empire territory, south of the Oghma mountain range, takes just under three full days and nights at a leisurely trot with ample time taken to rest ones’ steed and sleep. At a hurried pace with an experienced rider, enough rest for the horse to not collapse, and just enough sleep to stay awake for the ride, the time can be cut down to just under a day and a half.

Felix aims for somewhere in between, breaking into in a rushed canter as soon as his horse makes it off the slope of the peak the monastery sits on, and heading in the direction the most significant military landmark holding the line between the Eastern Empire and Alliance territory.

Each step the horse takes further from the monastery unwinds slowly the hot coil of anger in his soul. With a horse to focus on, a mind on the pace, and management required to give his borrowed steed enough energy to forge ahead while not overstepping his limits that would encourage the beast to buck him off, Felix distracts himself from thinking about what he’s leaving behind to take on this mission.

Eventually though he has to stop, the poor horse slowing after hours of riding, panting, eager to rest. Felix guides the horse off path, listening for rushing water, and stops near a stream, letting the horse drink and take a break as he sits and rests, pulling out his stash of dried meats to chew on, waiting until the steed is ready to continue.

Here, his mind starts to wander.

His anger returns, but it’s duller now, the distance put between himself and the subject of his ire keeping the flame of upset simmered low. He brings his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them, glaring at the rushing water.

‘Easy’, Sylvain had said. ‘Fun’. How could he even say that? It’s a _war_ , there is _no_ easy side, _no_ fun side. How did Sylvain even draw that conclusion? From sitting at one tea party and watching one small reunion dinner after months of separation, fighting on separate battlefields, enjoying the fact nobody’s died in their time apart?

What does Sylvain think, that Felix didn’t lose anything by choosing to fight on this side? That killing people dressed in Kingdom blue doesn’t make his heart stutter uncertainly each time? That he’s had to face people he knows and fighting them to the death, fighting off their attempts to appeal to who he used to be, it’s easy to shake off? That staring his father in the eye across an open battlefield--

He bites his lip so hard it bleeds, hunching over himself, a hand drifting to clutch at the fabric of his coat over his left side.

Sylvain doesn’t know _anything_.

Felix glances down at the earth, the sprigs of grass peeking between fallen foliage.

He stews in that for some time, fighting down the rush of anger and hurt, breathing deep as he picks at the grass under his feet until his thoughts fall back in order.

How bad must it be in Fhirdiad, for Sylvain to see the Black Eagles have one good meal together and decide the Empire has it so good? Sylvain had friends in Fhirdiad. Didn’t they take meals together? Chat over tea? Surely they must have _talked_ to each other in Fhirdiad, about matters besides warfare?

He sighs, gritting his teeth. His anger is still present, pressing on him, but there’s a thread of curiosity, uncertainty, hidden under it.

It seems obvious that they should, but Felix finds he can’t be sure. He doesn’t know, does he, at all what went on in Fhirdiad, the last two years? He’d assumed, perhaps, that it’d be similar to what he was seeing in the Empire. How different could it be?

With Sylvain’s reaction... maybe it is different. But how?

The horse snuffs, walking up to him, nosing for treats. It’s stopped panting, the sides no longer heaving, in the time he’s been lost in his head.

Felix reaches up to pat the steed’s head, absently, warding it away from his pack. He reaches in to pull out an apple, reaching for the dagger in the cuff of his boot to slice it into pieces, to feed to the horse one by one. When he’s done, he tosses the core, takes the reins, and leads it back to the path to continue on.

He rides, hurried, for two days for as many hours as he can see, leading the horse off path to find a decent place rest for the night so as to remain hidden from bandits and rogues which might check the roads for easy pickings. The horse is well tempered and patient which makes his task easier than it could have been.

When there’s nothing to do but to wait - for his horse to regain its energy, for the sun to bring light so it’s safe to ride - there’s not much else he can do but think. So think he does - about his time fighting the war, about how little he knows about what things were like on the Kingdom side beyond what he expected them to be with his upbringing.

He thinks a lot about Sylvain - what must he have been thinking, over the last two weeks at the monastery? What was his life like in these past two years of war? What was it, in the end, that he saw, which drove him to spit such heated accusations?

Sylvain doesn’t know anything - that much is given. But, even as Felix holds onto his fading anger, he concedes he never spoke much of what his life was like to Sylvain. The two of them had simply... fallen into pattern, the routine of monastery life, and never thought to ask each other to discuss how they got there. Sylvain doesn’t know what Felix’s life was like at Garreg Mach, beyond what he personally had seen once he arrived and they let him roam. Felix doesn’t know what Sylvain’s life was like in the Kingdom at all.

But just because Sylvain is ignorant, unaware of how hard it’s been for Felix on this side, does that mean his cruelty was warranted? That his words were fair?

He dwells on that for too long in the night, waiting for sleep to rest him for the next day.

On the morning of the third day, he arrives at the Great Bridge, only one or two hours after daybreak, waving his greetings to the watchmen at the fort on the Imperial side.

“I have a message for General Ladislava from General Ferdinand von Aegir at Garreg Mach,” he calls when they shout at him to stop and ask why he’s there.

It’s early so it takes the forces there some time to sort out where to lead him. He’s brought to the bridge proper, the written message in his gloved hand, sealed in its envelope with a wax seal of imperial leadership.

General Ladislava is an imposing woman, severe in stature and expression. She’s fully armoured, in the plate armour for a wyvern lord despite the early hour, and flanked by three imperial soldiers when she is brought to receive him. If she knows who he is or who he used to be, she doesn’t show it.

“You have a message?” she asks.

Felix hands the letter over wordlessly and she opens it right in front of him, reading it quickly. Whatever she sees must be serious because she narrows her eyes as she reaches the end, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts, folding it back and stowing it away when she’s done.

“Wait here,” she commands, “I’ll need some time to ready a response. In the meanwhile, we’ll take your horse and ready you a new one. It’s best you deliver it back swiftly. We must be prepared for anything that might happen.”

Felix just nods. There’s nothing he has to say. Ferdinand never enlightened him about what was in the letter and General Ladislava doesn’t seem inclined to do that either, at least not without her captains present, stationed at the bridge.

As General Ladislava leaves him to address her captains, write up and seal a response, and order a fresh horse from the bridge’s stables to be brought to prepare for Felix’s journey back to the monastery, he stares out from the side of the bridge at the rush of the river below, the valley demarcating the separation of the Empire from the Alliance.

Another wait gives his mind time to wander back, inevitably, to what he’s been thinking on, the last two days of travel.

 _'Sylvain doesn’t know_ ', he thinks, leaning over the parapet, resting his arms on the stone. What would Sylvain even know, about the difficulty of Felix’s journey in this war, the wealth of obstacles he’s had to overcome to make it this far relatively intact with only scars to remind him of his hardships, after two years of war? Felix has certainly never told him, never sent any missive, any letter, to attempt to explain.

With so little shared between them before they suddenly were reunited again in the last two weeks at Garreg Mach, perhaps it was only a matter of time for their differences in opinion to explode into such an argument. Sylvain’s presence in Garreg Mach never meant he was ready to be a true ally of the Empire, after all. He admitted he doesn’t know if he really wants to join, only that he had to leave the Kingdom.

Sylvain drew conclusions, as he only had his own experiences in the Kingdom to draw from to compare with what he was seeing in the Empire. Felix doesn’t know what set Sylvain off: where his words came from, what he felt. His words were hurtful, wrong, but it’s not like Felix had made any real attempt to communicate, to ask about Faerghus and open the door to discuss.

Sylvain has changed, but the last two weeks, Felix hadn’t considered that enough. He’d fallen for what he remembered he knew, and believed Sylvain would react in certain ways, only for him to defy that. Perhaps he’d taken for granted that Sylvain was the same man, willing to share all his thoughts with him. In recognizing all the parts of Sylvain he remembered, he forgot to look for the unfamiliar that might have changed.

‘ _He’s ignorant, not malicious_ ,’ he concludes after so long in thought, ‘ _But aren’t I, as well?_ ’

When he gets back to Garreg Mach, he’ll have to talk to Sylvain about everything. All the things they avoided discussing or hadn’t thought to talk about, all the things they left unsaid when the war began and decided not to revisit when they met again. After two years apart, things have changed. Sylvain is at Garreg Mach now, neither of them can return to the Kingdom. If Felix intends to move forward with Sylvain present, they’ll have to learn everything they don’t know about each other.

And that includes everything they’ve missed in each other’s lives in the past two years of war: everything Felix has done in the name of the Empire, the people he hurt, and the choices he made to irreparably cut himself free from every tether that pulled on him to the Kingdom he left behind.

It won’t be an easy conversation. But it’s a necessary one.

Felix rests his head on his arms, breathes out, and lets his anger go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this chapter was a, uh, struggle, so if you got through it thanks, i appreciate you for trying so hard, anyways we're past it now the next one is 👀👀👀 trust me


	10. The Disownment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to leave is to let go

**Ethereal Moon  
** **1182**  
 **Autumn  
** **Charon-Galatea Border**

Marching from Garreg Mach, a small, mobile force of Imperial troops crosses swiftly through Charon towards the border it shares with Galatea, straight for the grain stores in the north of the region. It’s a sudden strike at the central front, after many moons of Imperial posturing in the west, poking at the Silver Maiden who remains steadfast and untouchable in the Kingdom’s hands.

Autumn is bowing out on Fódlan, the trees having long shed their dry, coloured leaves; signs of life retreating inwards to wait out the anticipated winter chill.

Count Charon scrambles the troops he has to intercept. The main force of the Kingdom’s army is centered at Arianrhod to hold the Western front and the reserve army clustered in the lands surrounding Blaiddyd to protect the King and his closest allies. Charon, to the southeast and sharing its longest border with an Alliance territory that is not keen to be involved in Kingdom affairs, is not close enough to Fhirdiad nor Arianrhod to enjoy that boon of protection and manpower. If they fail to defend the grain stores, the winter will be disastrous for southeastern Faerghus.

The two small forces meet in the small plain of farmland in a clash of bodies and steel weaponry. Neither army is particularly large but the Imperials are well equipped and well prepared and the Faerghans are stubborn and fight with a grit and fervour driven by the unforgiving nature of a Faerghus upbringing. It’s a bloody and ugly skirmish.

Atop the hill overlooking the clash, Felix closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of crisp autumn air.

Winter is just around the corner: the air is dry and cold, flooding his lungs with the promise of a deep winter chill that is distinctly Faerghus in nature. It’s a touch too warm to be Fraldarius, despite the frost on the ground and the air, and the mud still too malleable in the chill to be Gautier, but the land resembles the northern territories just enough to knock against the bundle of nostalgia that burrows just a little deeper in his heart, each time he’s sent back to Faerghus.

He opens his eyes. The skirmish has been going on for a while. There’s dead strewn here and there across the small plain, farmland upturned from the march of soldiers’ boots and the stamp of cavalry hooves. Pockets of fighting are still ongoing, battalions clashing and separating, scattering before meeting again, the numbers whittling down with each cycle.

Neither side appears to be winning. Yet.

That’s why Felix is here. He’s come with a second force of reinforcements to ensure the strike succeeds. Bernadetta accompanies him with her battalion of cavalry, cresting the hill as he studies the conflict below. Somewhere nearby, Yuri flits between the trees, watching for wayward civilians, peasants unfortunate to be caught too close to the action, seeking to guide them away while they keep an eye on the conflict.

Felix meets Bernadetta’s eye. Her horse shuffles nervously but she nods and leads her battalion down the other side of the hill towards the edges of the conflict, to follow up with the small force northeast of the skirmish that was supposed to break off from the main army to torch their objective.

Winter isn’t kind in Faerghus. If their strike succeeds, their objective secured, Charon will bend and bow, maybe even declare neutrality to save what they can. Morale will suffer heavily in Faerghus, just in time for the first snow.

There’s an uncomfortable weight in his chest. Galatea will suffer - with their hardy unyielding soil, the meager crops they grow leave little to harvest and the territory relies heavily on aid from Charon and Fraldarius to weather the season year after year. The people will starve. Some will flee, join the wandering groups of refugees seeking any safe harbour. Many will stay.

It’s the Faerghus way: to endure.

They’ll die for it.

Ingrid will mourn this winter. Even as she works in service of the boar in Fhirdiad, her family, her home, her soul remains tethered to Galatea. She went hungry often in winter, growing up. It’s why her father was so eager to secure her betrothal to Glenn - the lifetime assurance that Fraldarius would never let Galatea starve. A deal so good for Galatea, the Count couldn’t even wait until her first birthday to push the engagement before it all fell to pieces with Glenn’s untimely death in Duscur.

He’d call that stone in his gut ‘guilt’, perhaps, if he were willing to entertain regret.

Felix turns north, and unsheathes his sword. The imperial captain behind him rallies her battalion, readying their charge to join their allies already caught in the fray down the slope of the hill.

If he squints in the hazy afternoon sun and focuses far enough in the distance, he imagines he can see the approaching force marching from the north, from the capital to provide aid of their own to Charon.

Assuming Hubert has pulled the strings of his spy network right, Felix will see Duke Fraldarius on the field of battle by the end of the day.

He doesn’t know what he feels about that yet. The Aegis Shield weighs his arm down. It feels heavier today, as if burdened by the plans he has, the intentions he hasn’t yet shared with anyone else.

The imperial captain shouts her orders with a battle cry. As the soldiers raise their lances and stream around him to march down the hill, entering the fray, Felix clears his mind, readies his sword, and follows.

**~o.O.o~**

“It was as you and Her Majesty suspected,” Hubert had declared, one moon prior, standing over the map laid out in the office that used to belong to the Archbishop’s assistant, voice filled with distaste and maybe something like contrition over his mistakes, “There was a spy feeding information about your movements to Fhirdiad.”

Felix had grit his teeth at the confirmation. Seven moons, it had been, since he’d narrowly escaped an ambush with all his limbs intact. The skin at the back of his head had prickled: a phantom ache. The surprise elite Kingdom force had killed the rest of his small strike team, nearly taken his left leg - the blade coated in poison - and forced him to cut his hair to free himself when they’d tried to drag him into their wagon by his fraying ponytail. He misses the weight of his hair: even after seven moons of growth, it’s not long enough to tie back. If it weren’t for Bernadetta and Dorothea’s persistent attempts to tame it back into something vaguely presentable, he’d barely be able to see past the choppy mess it had left of what now has to serve as his bangs.

It was good fortune that Yuri and their people had been on their way to receive him after their own personal clandestine mission before travelling on to Garreg Mach together, otherwise, he would have choked to death on his vomit, surrounded by the bodies of the squadron who’d tried to spirit him back to Fhirdiad to face his sins against the Kingdom.

They’d been Fraldarius soldiers. He’d recognized the leader: a man trained by his father personally. He’d sparred with him, once, a long time ago. The knight had spit in his face and called him a traitorous bastard unworthy of the Fraldarius name before Felix escaped his grip and stabbed him in the neck with the dagger he keeps in the cuff of his boot.

It’d taken him two moons to recover. The scar on his thigh spans half its length, and will never fade beyond what it already has. He’s lucky that’s the only lingering reminder that will stay with him, and that his leg still moves as well as it did before he’d been struck, albeit with a faint numbing ache he’s learning to push through. As far as he can tell, anyway.

“My father,” Felix had stated flatly. It hadn't been a question.

Hubert had met his gaze evenly. Felix had struggled not to look away. “We couldn’t confirm where the exact order came from, but yes, I suspect is it so.”

Felix had scoffed in response, crossed his arms, and glared down at the map and the four circles scattered along its depiction of the war's front lines. One for each suspiciously well-prepared Kingdom defence against Imperial attacks where Felix was involved, and one for the ambush that nearly killed him. “To deal with me himself,” Felix had sneered, looking over the blood red circles, memorializing their mistakes, “To make up for his failure to the Boar.”

There’s no need to elaborate on who or what that failure is.

He should have expected this. A man so devoted to the chivalric ideals of Faerghus like Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius would, of course, take responsibility for his wayward son himself. A stain on the legacy of Kyphon can only be made up for by Kyphon’s own. To let anyone else do so would be a colossal shame to the Fraldarius name.

Hubert had only hummed in response. “If it’s any consolation,” he had said, voice tinged with a dark humour that did nothing but sour Felix’s already foul mood at the time, “The reports say he wants you dragged to Fhirdiad alive.”

The words had wrought a fierce tension through Felix’s body, his nails digging into his arms as he hunched in on himself. It was worse; knowing they want him alive instead of just killed for his transgressions. It means they want him to face the Boar himself, to beg for mercy and wipe the stain from the history being written about the enduring bloodlines of Kyphon and Loog right before they execute him in public.

Or, perhaps, even worse than that: they want to rehabilitate him, to make him renounce his ideals, admit his decision to defect and support Emperor Edelgard’s war was a mistake, attempt to sway him back to their side.

What they believe is the correct side.

Even with the weight of chivalry dogging his every decision, Rodrigue is still his father. They may not have gotten along, but Felix isn’t so disillusioned with what’s left of his family to believe Rodrigue would find the idea of killing him easy. Not if taking him home and forcing him to see what he believes to be reason still seems like a feasible idea.

He doesn’t want to imagine the lengths they’d go to make that happen.

Death would be preferable.

“What now,” Felix then asked, staring blankly at the map. Five moons he’s been kept back from the front lines, running errands between Enbarr and Garreg Mach, standing watch at strategic border points he’s not allowed to cross instead of leading scouting missions, pinpoint sabotage, interception of Kingdom movements, taking part in military strikes. It had been to protect him, Edelgard had explained, when he was in Enbarr last, until they could figure out how the enemy kept figuring out where he was, when he was going to strike, when he was most vulnerable to ambush.

Fighting dummies and stationary targets, and sparring endlessly with Ferdinand, Yuri, or Petra, whenever she happened to be sent to the monastery, could only have done so much to keep his restlessness appeased. The lack of action, of doing anything meaningful in the war, had long been chafing at his spirits.

“Well,” Hubert had drawled, “That’s up to you. The spy is being dealt with, but we have a rare opportunity to feed information directly to Fhirdiad.”

Felix’s brown-eyed gaze had met Hubert’s amber one. The sun had been setting outside and it cast the office in shadow, as if setting the scene for a poignant moment in time. The menace of Hubert’s long shadow was retained in his memory.

“They say the Duke Fraldarius is getting frustrated. You’ve been out of reach for several moons,” Hubert had tapped his fingers on the desk, an even one-two-three-four, his gaze pinning Felix down like a particularly interesting specimen on a display board of hapless insects, “Next time you appear, he’s likely to take the field himself.”

Agitation had spiked in his chest at the statement and Felix had to shift uncomfortably where he stood, changing his stance to quell it. In a sense, a confrontation with his father had been, and still is, long overdue. He’d never told him his reasons for why he defected to fight for the Empire - as soon as Edelgard revealed her intentions in the Holy Tomb, his letters to his father had abruptly stopped. As far as Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius was, and is, aware, the Empire declared war and his son disappeared, only to arise fighting in skirmishes for the other side with no indication of why and no means of reaching out to ask.

It’s probably driven him to drink.

“What are you thinking?” Felix had questioned, tentatively, almost, in the wake of Hubert’s assessing gaze.

Hubert had straightened to his full height, folding one hand in the other, “I think it would be a great boon to Her Majesty’s goals if we can eliminate the Shield of Faerghus.”

The statement, matter of fact, bold and simple, had opened a pit in Felix’s gut and dropped his stomach to his feet. His stance had shifted again, planting his legs shoulder width apart, his arms dropping from their folded position, the left hand drifting unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword, seeking a grip on something to ground him.

“Are you asking me to kill my father?” he had asked, voice low, just above a whisper, tone dangerous, trying to ease the anxiety rising quickly inside him.

Hubert had tilted his head up, looking at him down the length of his nose in an infuriating mockery of a judgement, “Is that what you think I’m asking?”

Felix hadn’t deigned to answer, narrowing his eyes to glare back at the dark bishop. He hadn’t, and still doesn’t, relish the idea of fighting his father. The technical difficulty of doing so aside, he’s not considered it his responsibility at this stage in the war thus far. Rodrigue has a duty as the Duke Fraldarius to guide and advise the King - he will not take to battle unnecessarily until the King requires him to do so. His talents are better served providing strategic vision from Fhirdiad’s war room.

Fraldarius is far from the front lines. Fhirdiad even further. Faerghus’ most robust strategic strongholds are still secure in her hands. Having to face the Shield of Faerghus has not been a serious consideration for Felix as of yet, even as he throws himself into each mission Ferdinand and Hubert and Edelgard have allowed him to take.

None of those assessments had even touched what might be the real reason for his reluctance, for his discomfort with the implication of what Hubert wanted him to do, in that room of the monastery.

He grappled with that later, sitting in his room in the dark, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself, staring at the Aegis Shield propped up on his desk, the eerie organic shapes carved onto its face mocking him as he sat there and thought:

_'I don’t want to fight my father.'_

He’s not ready.

“I don’t expect anything, Felix,” Hubert had responded in the moment, dismissively, before Felix ever considered that thought, turning his gaze from Felix to the bookshelf to the side, “The Shield of Faerghus is a formidable foe; well liked, the paragon of chivalry, strategically gifted, and a powerful holy knight.”

Felix had grit his teeth. So that’s it, Hubert thinks he’s not good enough to face his father.

“They say he’s the best of Faerghus,” Hubert had mused, oblivious or deliberately obtuse with Felix’s rising irritation, and scoffed, “What that tells me is he has much to lose, should he be forced to face his son in battle."

Hubert had paused deliberately, to give the statement a moment to sink in. Felix didn’t need the whole moment.

“The average man would be rattled,” Hubert had continued eventually, when Felix failed to prompt him or react, “To fight his child on the field of war. I can’t imagine how it might feel to a man as good and great as the best of what Faerghus has to offer. After all, even the Shield of Faerghus is only a man, and being faced with the possibility of having to kill or be killed by his only living son would unbalance him enough to deal a wound on the mind, if not the body.”

Felix had bit his lip, tasting the blood on his tongue.

Hubert doesn’t know, he told himself in that room. Hubert doesn’t know Rodrigue has two men he treats as his living sons and Felix is but the less important one.

“At the very least,” Hubert droned on, ignorant of, or ignoring Felix’s mental plight, “You meeting your... father... in battle would give you the opportunity to settle your personal matters. His obsessive mission to see you returned to Fhirdiad can be put to rest should you face him and demonstrate personally to him your convictions, and he can stop wasting all of our time.” Hubert had met his gaze again, then a rare expression of candor flit across his face, “Your assistance on the front lines has been greatly missed.”

Felix had taken a deep breath in response, held it, and released it in a steady stream over seven long seconds. Facing his father on the field of war was always going to be a possibility. Knowing Rodrigue, and his overblown sense of personal responsibility to appease the royal line, it was unreasonable to expect his father would have left his son alone to fight freely for what he believes to be the wrong side or left the responsibility of stopping him to some other unlucky Faerghus soul.

Felix had determined at the time that it was as good a time as ever to have to face his father in battle. At least this way, he could be prepared.

“What would you have me do?”

**~o.O.o~**

The imperial strike force has whittled the unprepared Charon defensive army to its bare essentials and shot the first small advance unit of Galatea reinforcements from the sky by the time a piercing war horn announces the arrival of Kingdom reinforcements from the north.

Felix cuts through the sniper he’d spent the last few bouts chasing, dodging his arrows and eliminating his escort of Kingdom soldiers before he’d gotten within reach with his sword and ended his life. There’s smoke rising in the northeast. Either Bernadetta’s unit has succeeded and reached the grain stores or there are mages on the battlefield somewhere: an unaccounted for threat in a battle where magic wasn’t supposed to factor in.

He hasn’t been counting the number of men he’s slayed but he’s not yet tired, the battle rush still thrumming in his bones, the pulse of his blood quickened but steady. He flicks his sword to the side, spattering the earth with red, clearing the blade of viscera as he turns to face the oncoming storm.

It’s a small force of reinforcements, what looks to be barely three units of soldiers and their battalions in tow. But the strength of this force won’t be seen in just their numbers, Felix intimately knows. The banner swaying as they march bears the crest of Fraldarius. This is a rapidly organized, mobile force of elite soldiers, from the foremost military house of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, pressed to march quickly from Fraldarius territory or the capital of Fhirdiad itself.

And at the head of the charge, atop a magnificent white stallion in full barding, a gleaming silver lance held aloft, is a holy knight in full armour, the crest of his house painted in sweeping blue lines on his chest plate, dyed in the fabric of his flowing cape.

The Shield of Faerghus.

All around Felix, the two armies reorganize as swift as they are able. What’s left of the Charon troops group together and fall back towards the defensive line formed by their reinforcements. The imperial troops assemble, pulling together, battalions reorganizing into formation, facing off against the new threat.

The two sides size each other up. The kingdom forces are bolstered by a powerful general and his elite company of knights but the reinforcements have been marching hard to make it to Charon so swiftly from Fhirdiad. The imperial forces have more men but they’ve been fighting for a long while, even in a battle they were winning, fatigue is inevitably settling in.

There’s a moment, a beat. A collective breath being taken by the armies present, the very air itself. The thin cloud cover keeps the sun at bay, the autumn breeze bringing with it a momentary chilling gust.

The calm before the storm.

The Shield of Faerghus tips his lance, his command to charge lost in the swelling din of soldiers screaming their battle cries, lances and axes and swords pointed forward, streaming forward.

The imperial forces meet them head on.

Felix dispatches two brave but foolhardy Kingdom soldiers and locks blades with a swordmaster, parrying three blows between them before his feint fools the other man, and Felix’s sword carves across his torso in a lethal swipe, leaving him to choke on his blood as it empties out of him into the cold dirt. All around him, the stomp of hooves and rush of booted feet warm the frozen mud into a malleable muck of blood churned earth.

When he looks up, searching for his next opponent, he catches the gaze of Duke Fraldarius watching him right back.

Rodrigue tears through two Imperial soldiers with a swing of his lance, spurring his warhorse onwards, and begins to move towards him, carving a path through the Imperial troops unlucky enough to be in his way, his small battalion of Fraldarius infantry following him through the fray, cutting down any Imperial soldier that gets too close.

Felix turns to face him as he approaches, bashing a Kingdom brigand aside with the Aegis Shield strapped to his left arm when he tries to take advantage of his distraction, slitting his throat as he passes with the tip of his blade. He raises his sword, and breathes in once, holds it deep, and releases it, planting his feet, readying his stance to face the charge.

The area around him clears of soldiers; the Imperials aware of the inevitable clash and the space Felix needs for the bout he’s expecting; the Kingdom troops equally aware of the Duke Fraldarius’ intent, quick to get out of the way of the sharp hooves of his charging warhorse, the powerful sweep of his lance.

Felix’s sword meets his father’s lance in a shower of sparks. He doesn’t stay still to test his mettle against the warhorse his father is mounted on or the leverage of a follow up swing from the longer reach of the polearm, darting away when he successfully parries the blow, spinning to keep his father in his sights as he charges past, turning his horse around to ready another charge.

Against a mounted unit, Felix is acutely aware he’s at a disadvantage. He can’t outrun a charging horse, the lance has a reach his fortified steel blade can’t hope to match, and the force of each blow he has to parry is heavy with the momentum of the charge, not even factoring his father’s minor crest which would make any clash between them a weapon-breaking one.

That aside, his father is the most experienced cavalryman he knows; a celebrated knight whose talent at jousting and horse mounted warfare is unparalleled. Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius has been fighting from a saddle with a lance in his hand for longer than Felix has been alive. This will be one of the the hardest fights of his life.

Felix breathes deep, planting his feet, watching his father steady his horse, readying for another charge with his lance.

The professor’s first piece of advice to him as a foot soldier facing cavalry has always been ' _don’t if you don’t have to'._

Her second piece of advice was to ' _be prepared for the possibility, regardless_ '.

Felix has grown up with cavalrymen all his life. He’s challenged mounted classmates to combat on the training grounds many times. Sylvain had never humoured him, back at the academy, hating the effort that went into training, unwilling to risk letting Felix hurt his beloved mare in mock combat.

Leonie had always been a more willing participant in the agreement they could better each other with the practice, but she’s not here anymore, having refused to join Edelgard’s side, knowing her involvement in the death of her beloved mentor.

Ferdinand had frowned at Felix’s request when Hubert had put forth this mission, his love of horses infamous throughout the monastery and within their academy class. Still, he recruited imperial cavalry to practice charges against him in the last moon, to spar with him from atop a horse, in anticipation of the bout happening right now, today.

Rodrigue charges. His lance reflects the dull light of the sun as he swings, the telltale flash of his minor Crest of Fraldarius emerging between them, and Felix leaps aside, opting to avoid the blow rather than contest it. This time, his father chases him, the armoured warhorse pursuing him, stomping its great hooves as Felix darts back, fending off the thrusts of his father’s lance in a clash of steel against silver.

Given the chance, Felix would down the horse - the professor’s third piece of advice - but as a duke, the highest ranked noble in Faerghus short of the King, no expense has been spared for Rodrigue’s equipment. The horse has full barding, the criniere with articulated lames that cover both the mane and the neck, encircling all around, the gaps between each lame too thin to target carelessly. The peytral and croupiere encircle the chest and the rear respectively without hindering the steed’s movements, while the extensive supports for the saddle all but make the flank impossible to strike without being waylaid by the lance of the rider. There’s no easy strike against the steed, much less the knight on its back. The sword in his hand isn’t suited for combat against armour, the blade not long enough to menace the rider from the ground.

He focuses on parrying, dodging aside and knocking the head of the lance aside with his sword each time his father thrusts it forth, before he twists and throws his strength behind the Aegis Shield, his own major Crest lighting up between them as he knocks the lance head aside with the shield and throws himself past the horse, running past it, to force his father to break off the engagement or spin his unwieldy steed around to chase him.

Rodrigue chooses to disengage, cantering off a small distance before turning around, coming to a stop, the two of them facing off, a pause to size the other up, as they prepare for another bout.

Felix sheathes his sword. There’s a reason he keeps two strapped to his side.

 _'Be prepared'_ ; a lesson imparted on every Black Eagle student from the class of 1180, drilled home from the day the Professor began teaching, unsure of where to start, and so she had started with the most basic tenet of mortal combat.

Felix grabs his second sword, and pulls it free from its sheath, pointing its piercing tip at the duke facing off against him. The best weapon in a swordsman’s arsenal against armour, cavalry, and the masterful combination of both.

The rapier.

He ought to thank Hubert. The weapon isn’t popular in Fódlan, where combat exploits mistakes and gaps in armour or tries bash its way through with heavy arms, rather than put the effort and practice into nurturing the energy, force, and technique needed to pierce straight through. This one is a special order; Hubert had to brave Abyss himself and request a favour he hates owing of Yuri to get it when Felix stated, perhaps foolhardily, that he could do without, and spared no amount of his personal expense to fortify it for Felix’s use. If he makes it out of this skirmish alive, he’ll give the dark bishop his thanks.

Rodrigue appears undaunted by the change, likely having faced such blades before and come out victorious in his long military history, but his expression hardens when he sees it.

He lowers his lance, and doesn’t charge again.

His battalion moves behind him, and Felix tenses, wary, knowing the strategy employed against a lone fighter is to surround him, but Rodrigue raises his left arm, waving them back, and they still.

“Felix,” he says gravely.

“Old man,” Felix responds evenly, rapier held at the ready, prepared for any sudden strikes should his father choose again to charge.

“What are you doing?” Rodrigue implores, gesturing at the mess of battle around them, the black smoke rising smoke in the northeast.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Felix replies, refusing to take his eyes off his father to humour his display to take in the carnage of war.

“Is this how the Imperials wage war?” Rodrigue asks harshly, disappointment colouring his tone, “Torching food stores to starve the people? Your quarrel is with our army! It’s shameless, craven what is going on here.” His horse stamps its hooves, agitated. Rodrigue settles it, and it stills, “Galatea will starve!” he chides, admonishing, “You of all people should know that, and even then you--”

“This is war, old man,” Felix interrupts, “Don’t act like Faerghus is a bastion of morality. A peasant today is a conscript tomorrow. I’ve been on the front lines. I’ve seen the sorry state of the people your King throws to the slaughter,” Poor sods with lackluster training, hopeless against the Empire’s might and the relentless march of Her Majesty’s troops. So much meaningless death of people who shouldn’t be on the front lines, “Maybe the Emperor is just looking ahead.”

“These are our people, Felix!” Rodrigue shouts, appalled, “ _Your_ people!”

Felix clenches his jaw and doesn’t respond. He knows. He _knows_. He’s reminded of it every time Edelgard asks him to sneak into Faerghus to carry out a strike, every time the front lines creep a little further north from Garreg Mach, encroaching on Kingdom territory. This is the cost of war and every night he tells himself it’s worth the outcome, the future that Edelgard promises will come of it.

He _knows_ and he doesn’t need his father to preach it.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Felix?” Rodrigue scolds, every bit the furious parental figure he’s failed to be since he mourned his first son by declaring his death an honourable one he, impossibly, would have wanted, “What could compel you do this? To turn against us? Stop this madness! Whatever the imperials have on you, to force you to fight on their behalf, tell me what it is so we can deal with it.”

How arrogant of him, so assume he knows why Felix is fighting, that the reasons would be so fickle, that Felix would cave to blackmail and submit to it without a second thought, to even imply that this war would be so easy to stop. “I don’t answer to you,” Felix snaps, the irritation springing forth in his voice.

“Let me help you, Felix!” Rodrigue implores, “Whatever it is the Emperor has promised you, whatever it is you believe you are fighting for, it can’t be worth turning against your home! Your people! Your King!”

Felix doesn’t answer. His father doesn’t understand. He never will. To him there is no matter of greater importance than fighting for his King. To fight against Him is unthinkable, no matter what reasons Felix has for doing so.

“Come _home_ , my son,” he pleads.

“And what?” Felix barks, pushing anger forth to blot out the ache in his chest “Beg for forgiveness before that beast?” he asks, lip curling in a sneer at the idea of having to do so, “Let him rend the flesh from my bones to honour your vow to his dead father? Die to repent for my mistakes?” He shakes his head as Rodrigue stares, his expression growing heavier with sorrow with each word, “We both know how Faerghus works,” Felix scoffs, “I’m not going back.”

“Is that what it is, Felix?” Rodrigue asks sadly, his tone softened, as if he understands, changing tack, letting go of his anger momentarily, “I understand your fear, I do, I know what betrayal is answered with in Faerghus.”

Death. A crime of the highest order is always answered with death. A crime by any nobleman against his King is death.

Felix will not lay down and let Faerghus kill him. Not even if his father _begs_.

“But you made a _mistake_ , my son,” Rodrigue continues, and Felix recoils, eyes widening at what his father has the gall to say, his grip tightening on the hilt of his rapier, as Rodrigue continues to speak nonsense, “I know there wasn’t time in the Holy Tomb to understand what you chose but there is room for forgiveness, to make amends,” Rodrigue shakes his head, the corner of his mouth turning up in reminiscence, “You’ve always been stubborn, but there’s no need to fight just because you don’t see a way out.”

“This isn’t a mistake!” Felix shouts, indignant, angry, insulted, and the words flow out of his mouth like the magma of Ailell, expelled from the crack of his mouth in bursts, unstoppable, once released in the air, “I _want_ to be here. _I_ made this choice, and I _stand by it_.” He swings the rapier before him, the blade coming to a stop, pointing to the earth at his side, “Faerghus is rotten to its core,” he declares, and Rodrigue frowns at the words, “I will not stand by and play a part in spreading its decay. I will _never_ serve that beast you put on the throne. This is a battlefield, old man, if you’re here to stop me, then raise your lance and face me!”

There’s a silence after. Distantly, the sounds of war continue: the clash of weapons, the cries of men.

Rodrigue’s face drops all pretense of understanding, his expression going blank before a distinct sorrow seeps back into his features. The downturn of his mouth, the glaze over his eyes, the droop of his lance; it’s an expression Felix has been confronted with many times in the last six years. Inevitably without fail, it appears when they fight in ways where someone else once would have been able to bridge the gap in understanding.

And Felix knows, with the certainty when watching an unbalanced merchant caravan attempt to forge through a rushing river swelled by summer rains, what Rodrigue will say next.

“Glenn would have been so disappointed to see this, Felix.”

Felix laughs. A harsh, ugly noise in the autumn air: one expulsion of air in a derisive crack of sound. The outcome of every conversation he has with his father is as infuriating as it is foreseeable.

“Glenn,” Felix snarls, his dead brother’s name the shot of a bolt from a ballista, fired into in the cold Faerghus air, “Glenn, Glenn, Glenn! It’s always about Glenn with you!”

Rodrigue frowns, taken aback by his response as if it hasn’t been brewing for years between them, as if Felix’s ire hasn’t stemmed from exactly the first problem they’ve been unable to see eye to eye on since the day of that awful funeral to bury an empty shell of warped metal, a battered black iron spur, and the shattered head of a lance. As if Rodrigue doesn’t even know why Felix is mad at all.

“Maybe I’m doing this because of what happened to Glenn!” Felix snaps, pointing his rapier at him, “Maybe I’m doing this,” he says, each word punched with conviction, “So nobody has to die like Glenn did, ever again.”

Rodrigue shakes his head, rage colouring his features as he raises his lance, anger eclipsing the sorrow in a flash, “People are dying every day like Glenn has, in this war the Emperor has waged!” he cries, “How can you even say that you’re fighting against Faerghus because of what happened to Glenn? Do you even hear yourself?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Felix fires back, “You can’t see past Faerghus. You never have. Raise your lance and face me or go back to Fhirdiad like the coward you are.” He raises his sword, the deadly point unwavering as he plants his feet, at the ready, “I’m done talking.”

For a moment, Rodrigue just stares, his gaze unwavering, deathly still atop his snorting warhorse. The anger bleeds away, giving way to something like sorrow but his eyes are clear, and it settles in his features as Felix watches back, keenly aware that this is it: after this, he and his father are going to fight, and one or both of them may not come out of it alive.

Then the sorrow is pushed aside, replaced with a grim determination. The Duke Fraldarius settling into place, his war horse shifting at his command, ready to charge forth again.

“So be it,” the duke declares, “If you will not come willingly, my son, then I will beat the sense into your fool head and drag you back with my own two hands!”

He kicks his horse, lance pointed at the ready, and charges.

The first pass is much the same as before, Felix dodging the initial thrust, then parrying each pursuing one after, this time alternating with the use of the Aegis Shield strapped to his arm, blocking the lance and using the relic’s divine power to dissipate the power of each lance thrust it meets, getting used to the heft of the weapon, sparing the narrow edge of the blade from undue strain, before he darts out of reach, leaping past the horse to force the Shield of Faerghus to circle round to charge again.

The second pass, the third: a similar dance. A test of stubborn endurance, of patience. Each parry a ring of metal in the air, each flare of the relic on his arm a bone rattling crash to ward off his father’s assault, each leap aside a mark to start again. If this keeps up, Felix will tire much faster than his father, atop his hardy steed, ever will. Rodrigue brings his horse around again, the mount tossing its head as it prepares for another charge forward. Felix raises the rapier, and readies himself again for another clash.

The rapier is not popular in Fódlan because Adrestia’s expertise in the forging of armour has rendered the most common makes of the weapon useless for its purpose. In the years since, the craft has spread throughout the land, such that armour crafts across the continent are consistently of similar quality. The rapier is meant to pierce, but if the average armour smith has perfected armour to the point most weapons smiths struggle to craft a pointed blade capable of piercing it, then what is the use of crafting it, especially when better specialized weapons exist that do a similar job, with much less finesse required to master them?

Its fall from popularity meant swordsmen fell out of practice in using it, losing the skills that allowed the most skilled of swordmasters and mortal savants to fell cavalrymen with the point, despite the reach of the rapier blade.

Even Felix cannot boast he knows how to wield the rapier in such a manner he can dispatch the rider from the back of his horse with its length alone.

However, with the use of his major crest, he knows how to harness the point of the blade to pierce through armour, after hours of practice with heavy armour chest plates on training dummies at Garreg Mach, under Yuri and Ferdinand’s watchful eyes.

His father’s armour will, no doubt, withstand the pierce of the rapier point, and even with his crest, the reach required to stab him would be too far to accomplish without being trampled to death by the horse.

But the warhorse’s barding - thinner, more flexible to allow the horse the full range of motion it needs to remain agile as a mount - won’t.

This time when Rodrigue spurs his horse forward to charge, Felix rushes to meet him. The lance head glances off the forte of the blade and the guard of the rapier when he parries, and Felix darts back to goad the duke to follow him. The horse stamps its hooves and follows. Felix fends off one swing of the lance with the shield, darting back again away from the horse, and parries one, two thrusts, and when Rodrigue leans forward and stabs a third time, Felix grits his teeth and feels the flare of his crest in a rush through his blood.

Bracing his shield arm, the Crest of Fraldarius bursts into existence in a flash of light between them as he meets the stab with a mighty swing of his shield. The brute force of the bash knocks the lance wide, far wider than it would have had Felix parried it, had he simply raised the Aegis Shield to meet it, rattling the duke’s grip on the shaft as his arm extends with it’s swing.

With the lance knocked wide, Felix takes a step back, the horse beginning to pass him, its hooves driving it forward, stamping into the stiff mud, kicking up the dirt.

A twist of his wrist readies the point, his left hand coming up to support his grip on the blade, pushing past the dull pain in his left forearm at the earlier knock, and before the duke can bring his lance back in a swing, Felix lunges forward, his crest bursting to life a second time, and plunges the point of the rapier through the peytral, the power of the crest punching through the horse’s chest plate like it’s no better than stiff parchment, driving the blade through the steed’s chest at an angle from the side and into its heaving heart.

As the mount squeals in pain and stumbles, Felix lets go of the sword and dives to the side, out of the reach of the lance. He catches himself in a roll, steadying himself in a crouch, and yanks his steel sword free of its sheath at his side, straightening and running after the carnage as the warhorse crashes forward, momentum driving its dead weight onwards as it falls to its left, dragging his father down with it.

Rodrigue cries out in pain, but Felix is heedless to it. He charges forth, rounding the body of the twitching, dying mount, the rapier still buried in its shuddering chest, before the Fraldarius battalion regains their senses and realize they should move. He can see the tip of the rapier where it stuck out of the steed with his brutal stab has snapped with its fall: the rapier broken, barely used.

The duke’s left leg is pinned under his fallen steed, straining under its weight, and he’s trying to pull himself free, his right hand still stubbornly holding onto his lance as he drags himself forward, groaning through the pain.

Felix strides up to him sword point first. Rodrigue has just pulled his injured leg free when the tip of Felix’s sword taps his father under the chin, the blade just shy of his neck.

Rodrigue freezes, then pushes himself up, Felix’s blade following the movement of his throat as he leverages himself into a crouch, bearing his weight on his uninjured right leg, next to the body of his broken horse.

“Drop your weapon,” Felix orders.

His father looks at up him. He tightens his grip on the lance, a clench of his fist.

Felix tips his blade up, forcing him to tip his head back.

Rodrigue shuts his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath before he drops his lance to the ground, letting it clatter on the hard, upturned earth.

Felix chances a glance at his father’s battalion. The men shuffle uncertainly, unwilling to move while their duke is in danger, and some of the men turn to look at the battalion bishop, revealing her to be the battalion captain in his father’s absence. She looks furious, her green eyes flashing as she watches everything happen, but she doesn’t move.

Felix looks down at his father where he kneels, his weight on his good leg, eyes closed in resignation, head tilted back to avoid the point of Felix’s sword from cutting through his throat.

He’s done it.

He’s defeated his father.

It’s the first time he’s ever done it, in any context: mock battle, spar, or mortal combat.

The times his father used to pretend he’d been beaten, falling to the earth under the assault of the flimsy toy blades in the hands of himself and Glennwhile his mother sat by in the Castle Fraldarius gardens and laughed, back when Felix first ever learned what a sword was... that doesn’t count, he thinks.

The rush of victory surges through him so quickly, it hollows him out, leaving nothing but a blankness in its wake, carving out the depths of his soul to leave an aching, gaping hole.

“Felix,” Rodrigue breathes out, opening his eyes. A plea. For what? His life? To whom? The child he remembers Felix used to be, that Felix tries so hard to wrap and conceal away in the depths of his frozen heart?

He pulls his sword back, the blade drifting harmlessly away from his father’s throat as he steps back, one, two strides, three, out of the reach of the lance lying on the earth by his father’s side. Somehow, his grip on his sword is still steady.

The battlefield sounds so quiet, the moment between them ensconced in a glass bubble, away from the chaos of fighting around them, the duke’s battalion frozen just outside it.

“You’ve lost,” Felix rasps, “Go back to Fhirdiad.”

Rodrigue only stares, the tension in his frame easing slightly, head lowering to a position more comfortable without the blade to threaten his neck.

“Tell your boar king I’m not coming back.”

Felix waits for his father’s acknowledgement, but Rodrigue doesn’t voice it. He only shakes his head, his blue eyes heavy. “I’m not leaving without you, my son,” he croaks, “I know this isn’t how you want things to go.”

“Don’t tell me what you think I want,” Felix hisses, the steel sword in his hand shaking in his grasp.

“You didn’t kill me, my son,” Rodrigue laughs, a bitter rush of sound, “You could have, but you chose not to. I know this isn’t what you want. I _know_ , despite what you say, what you believe, a part of you wants to come home.”

Felix shakes, biting back his defensive insult. His throat burns with words unsaid, he blinks rapidly to stave off the burn behind his eyes.

“Please,” Rodrigue pleads, hunching in on himself: a pathetic display by a beaten man, “You are my only son, Felix, the only one who can carry on the legacy of our house.”

“I don’t care,” Felix snaps, gritting his teeth.

Rodrigue ignores him, “When I gave you that shield,” he points, and Felix looks down at the relic strapped to his arm where it pulses with a malevolent glow, “It was because I saw how deeply you cared for our people, how hard you fought to keep them alive, how angry you were that my governance failed to keep them from danger. You care,” he whispers, “So _deeply_ , my son.”

Felix shudders, clenching his fists, his grip on his sword so hard his palm is numbed against the hilt. It’s awful, so awful, to suddenly realize his father has seen him all this time, that his father knows him well enough to batter at his resolve.

That his father waited until now to say it.

“You still care, Felix,” Rodrigue says gently, his words a heavy blow against Felix’s stubborn, walled off heart, “You’ve shown me in the past you can be every bit worthy of the shield I passed to you, as my father did to me, and I know, I _know_ you still are. But I need you,” Rodrigue takes a deep shuddering breath, “I need you to live up to it.”

Just like that, the trembling walls around Felix’s aching heart steel themselves anew. The awful realization that his father knows him wiped clear, swept aside by the equally horrible realization that it doesn’t matter, in the end.

“Live up to it,” Felix echoes. He makes a derisive noise, “Live up to it?” he repeats with a humourless laugh, “How? By returning to Fhirdiad and throwing my life down for a man I don’t trust? Obeying the whims of a beast of a King pretending to be a man because that’s what a Fraldarius is expected to do?”

Rodrigue doesn’t answer.

The silence is damning enough.

“Our family,” Felix hisses, “has been defined by this shield,” he raises the Aegis Shield on his arm, “since Kyphon made his choice to use it to defend Loog so the Blaiddyd line could be gifted a throne by the church that stood by and watched him throw the Empire from his lands without helping his people!

“And since then,” he surges on, carried by the momentum of his anger, his frustration that even now his father refuses to see the mess behind Faerghus’ foundations that Felix can see so clearly and refuses to play part in perpetuating, “Since Kyphon made _his choice_ to pledge his loyalty to one man, every Fraldarius has done the same for that man’s sons, regardless of who he is, so long as he bears the crest that Loog did, regardless of how poor the rule of the king in his time!

“What about my choices?” Felix demands, his left hand sweeping forth to plant against his sternum, the Aegis Shield following, “Don’t they matter? Doesn’t what _I_ want _matter_?”

Rodrigue reaches out, “Of course it matters, Felix,” he agrees, placating, and Felix glares, waiting to see how his father plans to justify this too, what nonsense he’ll spin to try to promise Faerghus isn’t the way Felix knows it is, “That’s why we stand at the right of the king,” Rodrigue gestures, winces as it jolts his injured leg, before he soldiers on with the words he has left, “To provide guidance! To help him to be better! But you can’t help shape a man to be a worthy king unless you’re there by his side!”

Felix turns away.

How contrived. Useless nonsense. What use is standing by the King to advise him if the King will never listen? If the King decides to drive his Kingdom into the ground, it doesn’t matter what the Duke Fraldarius or any other lord in Faerghus pleads. The King can still, and he will, ignore them and do as he pleases, and the lords of the Kingdom will follow even if they disagree, because the authority of the King demands they fulfill that duty, by the will of the Goddess, whoever the hell she is.

Stand by his side to help him be better? What flowery words from a man who couldn’t even muster the will nor ability to pull a mere Regent in line to lead the Kingdom when it lacked a proper King.

“Come back with me, Felix,” Rodrigue pleads, “We can speak with His Majesty. Dimitri will forgive you if you explain yourself, explain what the Empire has told you, I’m sure of it. We can work together. You can come _home_.”

Felix shakes his head, “That’s not possible.”

“We won’t know unless you _try_ , Felix.”

“I have tried!” Felix snaps, his sword cutting through the air in a frustrated swing, “I have tried for _years_ ,” he cries. And he had, to everyone he could, the day he returned to Fraldarius after the boar’s rampage ended the Western rebellion, and after, warning every friend, every ally he made at the academy, again, and again, and again, “But nobody _listens_!”

Nobody but the Professor. Nobody but Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, and the Black Eagle classmates she trusted with her goals, her vision, her war.

“So come back with me, my son” Rodrigue pleads from his position on the ground, just over one lance length away, “And let me listen now.”

Felix chokes on something between a laugh and a sob. For so many years his father never listened to him - about Glenn, about Dimitri, about _himself_. All it took for Rodrigue to promise he would try was a continental war and a loss in battle against the son he and his dying, obsolete kingdom has already driven away.

So little, too late.

“You’re too many years late, old man,” Felix declares, taking a steadying breath, “I can’t come back,” he says, resolve hardening, “and I don’t want to.”

“It’s not--” Rodrigue starts, but Felix interrupts him.

“Our family expected me to be a shield to the King,” he recites, staring at a point over his father’s shoulder, the words flowing, practiced, after so many nights thinking of what he wanted to say when they met inevitably on this battlefield, after Felix agreed to Hubert’s plan to join this strike, “Like every Fraldarius before me, like Glenn did, throwing his life away when his lance wasn’t enough to do the protecting.

“I want nothing to do with it.” Felix declares, the statement is final, brooking no arguments.

“The future I fight for will let people choose for themselves, who they want to protect, who is worthy of their support, their friendship, their time.” he continues, as Rodrigue stares, mouth agape, unable to do anything but listen from where he kneels, watching his son slip away from him with word after word, “No crest will mark anyone more important,” Felix states, his voice growing louder with each declaration, his blood heating with his frustrations he’s held onto for years, the anger he’s struggled to control since Glenn’s death with no one to understand him, “No bloodline will stand above others without merit and the choices of our ancestors will be theirs alone, not shackles of legacy their children have no choice but to follow!”

He brings his determined gaze back to meet his father’s wide-eyed one.

“Take this old thing back.” he snarls, thrusting his left arm forward, the Aegis Shield staring his father down from his arm, “You’re the Shield of Faerghus, what use are you if you have nothing to shield yourself?” Felix sheathes his sword in a sharp, fluid motion, freeing his hand to yank furiously at the relic on his arm, undoing the buckles, loosening the straps, “My future will not be dictated by a _shield_ ,” he proclaims, “I don’t need it!”

He throws the Aegis Shield down at his feet between himself and his father. It clatters on the stiff mud between them, the eerie red glow from the crest stone pulsing once through the face, before it fades, inert, a useless husk of welded bone and umbral steel once again, the moment it is separated from Felix’s touch.

“Felix!” Rodrigue chokes on his name; the anguish is palpable in his voice.

One thousand years of history; of Fraldarius sons and daughters receiving this relic from their fathers and mothers before them; four hundred years of its divine power harnessed to protect generations of Fraldarius lords and the Blaiddyd royalty they’d sworn their lives to since Kyphon pledged his own to Loog before them. All of it, thrown down into the mud at Felix’s feet.

A devastating rejection of the legacy of this legendary house by its last living son.

It tastes like clarity. The realization of an ultimatum.

The thrilling drop of of one’s weight when one spreads their wings and takes flight.

It tastes like freedom.

“I’m not coming back,” Felix spits, a final declaration, high on the rush of adrenaline at what he’s done, weightless now that the burden of history, legacy, fidelity, is thrown down at his feet, “Next time you or the boar send anyone after me, tell them to kill me.”

Rodrigue stares blankly at the shield lying on the earth, eyes wide, mouth agape. The act so shocking he’s run out of honeyed words and empty promises. The shield he’d passed down to his only living son in acknowledgement of Felix’s noble desire to protect, in hopes he’d follow in his footsteps and carry on a thousand year legacy: thrown back at him.

Felix straightens, looking down at the pathetic defeated figure of his father.

When Rodrigue doesn’t move, he turns his back to leave.

He’s done here.

There’s a scuffing noise behind him, the scrape of metal driving into the dirt.

Felix stubbornly ignores it, keeping his back turned as he starts to walk away.

“FELIX!” the Duke Fraldarius howls, anger driving him up.

Felix keeps walking, tensing at the sound of his name, resting his right hand on the hilt of his sword, still in its sheath.

“You will Not,” the duke commands, “Turn your back,” the thud of his boots on the earth, the quickening limping steps as he lunges from behind, “On ME!"

Felix unsheathes his sword in a flash, turning to face the danger, but Rodrigue has already lunged, and no matter how quick he is, after so many weeks and years of training to be light on his feet, even Felix cannot dodge an attack where he wasn’t ready from the start of the strike.

The point of the lance plunges through his left side from the front, under the arm he instinctively raises to defend himself.

As the head of the lance follows, the blade grinding against his lowest rib in a ripping thrust of agony through his flesh below it, Felix swings instinctively, body moving before mind, retaliation born from thousands of hours of practice, made real in the moment he’s been struck. His blade catches as he falls, cuts through, and swings free.

He hits the ground on his injured side, the lance tearing free of his flank, the landing driving the breath from his lungs in a choked cry of pain, before he rolls, once, twice over and comes to an abrupt rest on his front. Distantly he hears his father’s howl of pain, an echoing sound, barely audible over the the horrible ache spreading from his left side through his body, the rush of his blood through his veins.

Time seems to have slowed, his senses dulled. He’s breathing but he’s choking on air. He can see, but his vision isn’t clear: the battlefield a blend of awful brown, leeched of colour until nothing is distinguishable. He can hear but it’s muted, there’s a rushing sound blowing through, but no wind to be the cause of it.

His gaze darts to the side, back to the direction the attack came from, looking for something, anything, in his line of sight to take form into recognizable shape.

The silver lance lies bloody between himself and his father’s crouched figure, hunched over, barely five strides from where he’d lunged to attack.

His father’s right arm, severed just below the elbow, lies next to it.

“Your Grace!” a voice calls out, and Felix jolts back to full awareness, the sounds of battle returning as if it’d never left, the snap of clarity back to his sight.

His father’s battalion, rallying to their injured lord.

Suddenly, the lack of his own to support him rushes through him like a thoron bolt through the core.

He’s injured, and alone. Vulnerable, with no support.

He’s acutely aware that he’s not ready to die.

Felix grips his sword, and moves to push himself up. He needs to go, he needs to retreat, needs to rendezvous with Bernadetta and Yuri and everyone else and take what’s left of their troops back to Garreg Mach. Their work is done, if the smoke on the horizon is any indication, done _enough_. He’s said his piece. He can’t be here: not at the mercy of his father’s personally trained battalion, not while he can’t defend himself.

It hurts, Goddess it _hurts_ to move, and Felix bites back a cry of pain at the burst of agony in his torso, rendering his limbs weak. He slips in the mud, softened by blood and warfare, his left arm giving out, his elbow hitting the earth, his right foot extending, unable to find a solid foothold to keep him up. He gasps for breath, but no matter what he takes in, it’s not enough.

Is this what he’s reduced to, after one lucky strike with a lance? Years of relentless training, and for what when he’s so weak he can’t even get up?

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He knows, he _knows_ that there’s no honour in war. He knows that whatever notion of honour that the proudest scions of Faerghus preach is falsehood and lies: treachery in disguise to make death look beautiful and meaningful when all it is is awful, pointless horror. Even his father--

Felix bites back a sob of pain, struggling to steady his breaths, fighting back the burning in his eyes.

He’s so _fucking stupid._

He should never have turned his back on an enemy who wasn’t incapacitated or dead.

He grits his teeth and struggles to his hands and knees, releasing his sword to bring his shaking right arm around himself, to clutch at the mess of his left side. He’s bleeding profusely through the ugly tear of the wound, all the layers from his undershirt to his fur-lined cloak steadily soaking up his lifeblood, staining everything crimson.

His fingers dig into the mud as he takes a few awful, painful, steadying breaths, suppressing what sounds of pain want to escape his throat, and he lifts his head to look over at his attacker.

The Shield of Faerghus is crouched on the ground, his left hand planted to keep himself balanced. What’s left of his battalion stands, scattered, around him. The battalion bishop has grabbed his severed arm and with the help of one of the soldiers, is holding it steady, trying desperately to heal it, to use her faith to bridge the gap between two halves of the flesh, speaking frantically as her hands glow brightly with white magic.

Rodrigue’s gaze meets Felix’s. His affect is flat, his eyes - blue, like so many Fraldarius lords before him- hard and unblinking. His brow is furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down in a harsh line.

Felix has seen the Duke Fraldarius disappointed, frustrated, anguished, and in the throes of despair. He’s borne the brunt of his deep seated but dignified sorrow, his drunken despair, his silent, heavy disappointment.

But never this cold fury.

Not until this very moment.

“Take him,” Rodrigue orders, his gaze steady and unyielding, directly through Felix’s eyes to his very soul, “We bring him back to face His Majesty.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” his soldiers respond, springing to action.

Felix scrambles to get his limbs under him, to put distance between himself and the approaching enemy. He can’t go back to Faerghus, not like this, not after everything that’s transpired today. Not after everything he’s done to make it this far. Not after he’s returned the relic his father gave him, and declared his separation from everything he once was.

He fails to get on his feet twice, the pain hampering him, the blood loss keeping him unsteady, his boot sliding in the mud, his strength fleeing him, his balance lost. In his panic, he snatches his sword back up from the earth, pointing it at the approaching soldiers, the blade shaking in his grip.

“Stay back!” he yells. His voice is hoarse, disguising the shake of fear underlying his words.

When the first soldier gets within a lance’s length of him, he swings, warding him off momentarily. The movement twists his torso, however, and he clutches his wound with his left hand, gasping in pain, his vision going fuzzy around the edges.

He swings wildly at the second approaching soldier, but this one parries his blow with his javelin, knocking the blade easily from his shaking grasp.

Felix watches it clatter against the earth as the Fraldarius troops, in his peripheral vision, surge forward, emboldened, now that he’s without a weapon. Clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, he wrestles with the reality that it’s over: that everything he’s done since the day Glenn left for Duscur and failed to come home has been for absolutely nothing.

“Get away from him!”

An arrow rips through the throat of the man nearest to him with uncanny precision, killing him and knocking his body back just as he reaches to grab for him.

Felix turns his head and sees her, balanced on her galloping steed, another arrow drawn, ready to fire.

Bernadetta.

The second soldier grabs hold of his cloak and yanks, making to grab for his neck from behind. Felix twists to escape, panic dulling the burst of agony at the motion.

There’s a flash of bright light, white magic flaring, and the man lets go with a grunt of pain, staggering back a step, far enough from Felix that the bolt of arcane magic that strikes him dead releases no wayward spark that hits Felix.

“Seems you’re in a rough spot, Lone Wolf!”

“Yuri,” Felix sighs with relief, slumping back as his allies arrive, pulling him back from the brink of despair.

The trickster kneels down beside him, their levin sword pointed steadily at the duke, the danger of a magic strike from distance keeping the rest of the battalion from moving forward, stuck between the order they’ve been given and the need to protect their lord. With their free hand, Yuri casts a heal spell, and the shock of the deepest part of the wound coming back together brings, first a brief blessed coolness of relief, before its failure to close the entire wound makes itself known, forcing a sob of pain out from Felix’s battered body.

“Your Grace!” the bishop healing the Duke Fraldarius’ arm cries, somewhere in the distance, “Please! You cannot move, else I cannot repair all of the damage!”

Felix opens his eyes.

Rodrigue’s teeth are grit, his posture tense. He’s shaking, his left hand fisted in the dirt. His eyes flash when he sees Yuri cast another heal spell, the levin sword in the trickster’s hand pointed steadily his way the whole time.

When Bernadetta arrives, her horse slowing its gait to approach, her bow still held steady, arrow drawn, Rodrigue seems to sag where he is, watching warily from his position, unable to move where his arm is still being healed, while his leg is still injured under him. The battalion comes together to shield their lord.

This sight, at least, is familiar, to Felix. The burn of frustration, making itself known in Rodrigue’s features.

There’s nothing left he can do, to keep Felix here.

“Time to go,” Yuri declares, grabbing hold of Felix’s arm, swinging it over their neck, and hoisting him up.

Felix stumbles against them but makes it upright, leaning heavily against the trickster as they begin to pull him away, back to where the bulk of what’s left of their forces are positioned. Where Yuri’s horse is waiting to take them back to Garreg Mach because they don’t have any dedicated healers with advanced faith proficiency and Felix’s wound is nowhere near treated sufficiently, not even with two of Yuri’s heal spells.

Somewhere between Felix dismounting his father by killing his horse, and his father stabbing him with his lance in a fit of anger, the battle must have ended around them. He hadn’t noticed.

Bernadetta keeps her horse between them and the scattered Fraldarius forces, Felix can hear her muttering as she follows, little nonsense orders under her breath for the enemy to stay still, not to force her to shoot, not to follow them back. He powers through the pain, and focuses on planting step after step in as straight a line as he can, following Yuri’s lead, each stride closer to their army, to safety, and further and further away from the Duke and all he stands for.

“FELIX!” Rodrigue roars from behind him. One final, desperate command with as much of the authority of the Shield of Faerghus behind it, ordering him to face him, to face the Kingdom he’s leaving behind.

One final call to come home.

Felix closes his eyes, takes a deep shuddering breath.

And ignores him.

From there it’s a blur. He doesn’t know how long he spends, relying on Yuri to guide him back, taking measured, faltering steps until he can’t walk anymore, coming to a stop as close to their camp as he is able.

There’s another cast of heal, the magic faltering, like the caster has reached their limit on the number of times they could cast it. It’ll scar, Felix thinks, terribly. Three casts of heal, and it’s still not closed over. Wounds like these always leave a mark. The Duke Fraldarius has always been known for his lancework, far before his faith made him one of the greatest holy knights of his generation.

Someone wraps his wound, bandages pulling tight against his torso to hold it together, to stem the flow of blood. Someone else forces him to drink from a water skin, to replace the blood he’s lost and losing. Yuri, he’s pretty sure, makes him swallow something foul from a flask, “To dull the pain,” they murmur, as Felix chokes back the burning liquid, “It’s going to be a rough ride.”

Eventually somebody gets him on a horse and Yuri gets on behind him, supporting him from behind, reaching around to take hold of the reins. The horse is pointed south, and escorted by Bernadetta and her cavalry battalion they take off, the rest of what’s left of their forces following behind at a marching pace, heading back to Garreg Mach.

“You dropped your shield or something, Fraldarius?” Yuri asks as they ride, “What did I say about guarding your left?”

Felix chokes out a laugh.

He’d thrown the relic down, to sever his ties to his family, to cut himself free from his predetermined fate.

And so his father had stabbed him right through where the Aegis Shield would have protected him, had he kept it strapped to his left arm like a shackle to his bloodline’s legacy.

His laugh tapers into a wheeze of pain, and he grits his teeth, sucking in a steady, agonizing breath, leaning back against the trickster as his vision blurs, and his grip on his consciousness begins to wane.

The dramatic irony of it all is sickening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW FINALLY GOT TO POST THIS WHAMMO OF A CHAPTER YAYY i threw so much into this chapter you guys 😭 it’s probably the best bit of writing i’ve done in recent memory and i usually don’t love my own writing lol please do me a solid if you rec this fic please cite this chapter if ppl can’t stick with the rest of this story i understand but i just want this chapter to be acknowledged bc i put a lot in it 😭😭 thank you im go lie down now


	11. Scars of All Kinds (pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sylvain has much to think about.

**Harpstring Moon  
** **1183**  
 **Spring  
** **Garreg Mach**

Anger doesn’t sit well with Sylvain.

It makes him restless, chews its way through his body like a rat in a nest of grain, leaving hot pinpricks of uncomfortable heat in its wake as it settles in his heart, climbs its way up into his brain. Being angry is uncomfortable. It’s attention seeking, impossible to ignore. If it’s not quelled, it pulls all thoughts in its direction, pushes words out his throat before he can think about whether they should be said. Anger ruins all the work he puts into crafting the man he wants to show the world he might be. It blots his sight, muddles his thoughts and prods him to act reactively, as if knowing it has a limited time to manifest itself before it burns itself out.

Worst of all, it’s ugly. Sylvain knows, intimately, what anger looks like and what it’s capable of looking like if it grows enough, if the fuel of its flames are stoked by deliberate ire. He grew up in its company, seen it make itself known in the faces, the bodies, the behaviour of those who once were and still are of his house. Anger warps appearance: muddies the eyes, scrunches the nose, bares the teeth in unsightly snarls. It manifests in raised voices, hurtful words. If the flames are fed, it evolves: words become accusations, exaggerated then baseless, then they lose meaning entirely, becoming sharp barbs with only intent to wound and hurt. Fed more still and words stop being enough to release the building pressure, the growing volume of rage. If words aren’t enough, fists fly instead. From there, it’s best not speak of what might happen.

Sylvain doesn’t like being angry.

In the most melancholy of his moods, he’d be tempted to say it runs in the family. Despite this, Sylvain doesn’t think he has the temperament for it, not really. He’s capable of anger - very much so - but letting it out does nothing for him. Anger doesn’t make anyone listen to him any more than they already don’t, and besides that, he always feels miserable after the fact. It’s too easy to see how ugly the effects of it is, even if letting it take hold feels good for the briefest moment. He’s seen enough of anger in other people to know he doesn’t want to be like that as well.

If Sylvain has to be angry, he tries to make it burn cold - tries to avoid feeding it, dismisses what flares it up, smothering it inside himself before it can make itself known. If he keeps the burn low, in the cases he can’t smother it before it manifests in his behaviour, he can limit it to cutting words, level tone. With words, whatever damage it causes can be weathered and repaired sooner, forgiven and moved past before lasting damage takes hold.

When Felix slaps his outreached hand aside, by the fishing shed of the monastery, glaring back at him - brows turned down, eyes hard and wet with hurt - Sylvain’s anger simply abandons him with the aftermath of what he’s let it do, leaving him with the sight of his dearest friend storming away from him and the ugly churn of guilt, rising in his gut.

He’d forgotten, of course, that a flame, no matter how cool, is still a flame.

It still burns whatever it touches.

**~o.O.o~**

Sylvain has a hard time chasing sleep, after the argument.

The anger had returned in flickers after he had retreated to his room following Felix’s rapid departure. Like a dying flame it brightened and dimmed in turns, driving him to pace in his room, wrestling between the opposite pulls of justified vindication over what he said and uncertain, hesitant contrition when Felix’s words repeat themselves, echoing in his brain.

Sylvain can count within the limits of his fingers the number of times he’s truly driven Felix to great upset. Considering the length of their friendship, that’s a pretty good rate - an excellent one even, considering Felix’s temperament in early childhood. Still, he doesn’t like it every time it happens. Felix by nature had grown into a dour teen, and now a stern man - him being upset isn’t necessarily a rarity - but for him to be so angry, hurt because of Sylvain...

It doesn’t feel good to be the cause of Felix’s upset, is the point.

Surely he isn’t _wrong_ to be angry. For two years he’s fought for Faerghus - for his homeland - and he’s seen, first hand, the misery the war has affected on his people and especially his friends. Smiles are rare, in Fhirdiad - even with all the friends he has there. It’s almost as if there’s no time to find joy under the eye of the Church and the scrutiny of the governing lords present to advise the King, all at once within a single keep.

With the threat of the Empire, every moment free is a moment that could be spent working to better one’s self, training one’s proficiencies, preparing for the next battle to better ensure the next battle will be a victorious one. The only joy is found by succeeding on the battlefield, but Sylvain has always found such vindictive glee to be empty and fleeting, so long as the war was yet to be won.

He’d thought the situation to be the same for the Empire. To see otherwise has been jarring. Almost two weeks he’s spent watching Felix and everyone else stationed at Garreg Mach carry out their business as part of an army fighting on behalf of the Empire and it’s so... blatant, the levity with which they all do their duties and find time to have fun when their tasks are done. Sure, Felix trains, spars often, but instead of a necessity, burdened by the pressure to do better, be better in war, it appears to be just a quirk of who he is - something he does often because it’s what he likes to do rather than something he _must_ do. With the others stationed at the monastery, the difference in everyday life between the Kingdom and Adrestia grows even more stark - there’s time for tea, for hobbies, for _idleness_. The fact Caspar could return from a mission, another battlefield, and forego reporting to von Aegir because ‘another general had it covered’, and instead pursue Felix for a spar for _fun_ rather than dwell on the bloodshed he no doubt took part in before moving on to the next mission... It had thrown Sylvain so off balance, he hadn’t known what to do with himself when Felix accepted the challenge.

Each day at the monastery has allowed Sylvain all the time in the world to take what he sees and compare it to what he experienced on the other side.

It isn’t _fair_. It’s all the same war and yet Faerghus seems to do nothing but get the short end of the stick.

He’s allowed to be angry about that. Isn’t he?

Even though he’s left Faerghus too?

Doesn’t he have that right to be angry?

And Felix...

Felix fit in. That’s the real kicker, maybe. Felix looked at home within the monastery walls: walking about with a list of daily errands, running short jobs on the chore rotation, leaving Sylvain for patrols as assigned. Imperial soldiers answered to him here, treated him with respect, and his fellow captains and generals, old classmates from the academy class, he’d made proper friends of them all. For all his reticence to make friends during the academy, especially with those more interested in finer things than combat, he’d managed to become friendly with these sorts and more - the lovely Dorothea, skittish Bernadetta, maybe even Ferdinand, for all the man’s pomp and circumstance that once bothered Felix to no end. All the misery his old friends in Faerghus had experienced, and it didn’t look like it had touched Felix on this side.

Felix looked like he _belonged_ , and the sight of it had made something uncertain and ugly lodge itself in Sylvain’s chest. It felt like the echo of the betrayal he’d felt, when the first few messengers returned to Fhirdiad to report the rumours were true - that Felix really was fighting on the Imperial side, an active participant in their acts of war. It’s one thing to know his old friend had joined the other side in the war. It’s quite another to see the decision Felix made suited him so well.

 _‘Are you jealous?’_ Felix had asked, at the dock.

Sylvain doesn’t know the answer to that question. Besides anger, jealousy is another quality he hates to entertain in himself. Jealous on behalf of the Kingdom? Hard to say. He can be jealous that joviality is more frequent in the imperial controlled Garreg Mach compared to dour Fhirdiad, but how much is the better mood worth if they’re at a standstill in the war regardless?

Jealous of Felix? That doesn’t feel right.

Sylvain will admit that maybe he’s a little jealous of the people around Felix. He was prepared to be, after all, Dorothea, Bernadetta, Caspar, Ashe, Yuri - all of them - they’d gotten to see Felix, spend time with him the entire time Sylvain had been separated from him. Two years having been without his dearest friend - of course he’s a little jealous, having lost that time.

It’s not the main thing that’s got him heated, anyway. That’s another matter.

What really bothered Sylvain was that Felix was doing so well in Imperial hands and he had barely spared a thought for his homeland - for Faerghus, the Kingdom that raised him - the whole time Sylvain’s been here. Before they let Sylvain out, when they’d allowed that one meeting with Felix, the swordsman had been reluctant to ask, finding it difficult to say the words, to request information about what he had missed in Faerghus. At the time, Sylvain thought it was nerves, maybe fear of finding out the answer. Guilt or regret he had thought, or perhaps hoped - that curling flame of anger flares - he had seen, when Felix had looked so uncomfortable discussing it in the room. Now, after almost two weeks in his company, Felix had never even thought to bring it up. After seeing how he’s been living, Sylvain can’t even be sure if Felix had cared, with how well he’s been getting along on the imperial side.

No, that’s not right.

Sylvain bites his cheek as he lies in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The anger fades again, yielding to contrition, remorse. He can’t make that assumption.

_‘You don’t know anything about what I’ve had to sacrifice in order to live for what I believe in.’_

The words are burned in his memory now, after the fact. Paired with the image of Felix stepping forward, glaring right into his eyes, fangs bared like a wounded but angry wolf; hurt but prepared to fight.

He’d gone too far, thinking that - saying it aloud.

What does he really know about what things have been like for Felix, here on the imperial side? Two years, Felix has been fighting, and Sylvain has just been here for almost two weeks time. Just a glimpse of a picture, he realizes in hindsight.

He should have asked, found out more. Slinging accusations like that... almost baseless - it’s foolhardy, impulsive. He’s better than that.

It just... there never was a good time to _ask_ , with Sylvain adjusting to life out of his cell of a room, and Felix having assigned duties, training to do as an active soldier at the monastery. Felix never brought it up, so Sylvain hadn’t either, unwilling to rock the boat so soon after his release. They’d fallen into a familiar pattern and let that dictate the days as they passed.

He can’t sustain it, the anger, and the burn of his upset smothers itself into a bubble of quiet resentment that he can scarce identify under the lump of uncertainty, doubt, and remorse.

At the least, he owes Felix an apology for yelling at him, accusing him of joining the Empire for fun. Sylvain’s feeling it now, the uncertainty of having switched to another side, or rather, having abandoned the side he’s meant to be on: the baggage that comes with it, the guilt. He knows Felix better than to assume he never felt that at all, when he left Faerghus behind, two years ago.

Right?

The rest of it... he’ll have to sit down with Felix to talk it over. Sylvain is sure there’s more he said that hurt Felix, but if Felix never tells him, doesn’t discuss his own experiences to Sylvain, he’ll never know what he said wrong for sure.

Felix owes him as well; if not an apology then an explanation. Sylvain _deserves_ to know, why Felix left, what he’s fighting for. There are things he needs to tell Felix as well, that he has to find out from somebody, if not Sylvain, about the rippling effects and the consequences of his decisions.

As he reaches this resolution in his own mind, there’s a hard slam of a door close by.

Sylvain winces where he lies. He doesn’t know how long Felix has been out, wandering with his anger, but he’s clearly still upset. If his past experience with Felix is any indication, it’s best not to approach him too soon when he’s angry, else the argument just starts up again, but worse, with the time to dwell on specific grievances.

Whatever apologies Sylvain has to make, it’s best to do it tomorrow.

Even with this plan in place, the knowledge of Felix’s continuing upset troubles him. He doesn’t know how many hours more he lies there, twisting and turning in his sheets, trying to chase away the swirling thoughts, of upset and vague resentment, alternating with contrition, regret, shame.

He sleeps poorly that night.

**~o.O.o~**

When Sylvain wakes he finds the sun high in the sky, the light of the bright spring day peeking through the gap in his curtains, angled in the late morning to fall directly on his face. He groans and rolls over, still feeling groggy despite the late hour. He’s missed breakfast for sure, and if Felix was feeling forgiving in the morning there’s no way he’d wait for him before taking off to carry out his duties for the day.

Sylvain’s swirling thoughts kept him up far too late and the late hour when he finally succumbed to rest meant he also woke up late. If he wants to talk to Felix, he’ll have to wait now for him to come back from his daily errands as a man of his position, or look for him - a daunting task considering the vast sprawling grounds of Garreg Mach.

If Felix is still upset and wants to avoid him... it’s likely Sylvain wouldn’t be able to find him.

He could ask others for help.

Sylvain dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, with a twinge in his gut. He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone today, besides Felix.

A bubble of resentment pops up in his chest, souring his mind. It’s probably not fair to resent the other Black Eagles for being on this side of the war, for all the hurt the Empire has done against the Kingdom; especially considering that he’s also left the Kingdom now.

Really, he’s no better.

It could be argued he’s worse.

But he can’t help it.

Maybe he’ll stay in today, he decides, reluctantly getting up to yank at the curtains and let the light in properly. He can grab food from the dining hall and bring it back to eat in his room if he so needs. Several days back, Felix had grabbed a few books for him to read in his downtime after Yuri had brought it up at their sparring session. The stack is a mishmash of genres; mostly historical texts and one or two tactics textbooks, and at least one of the books is the third of a series that Sylvain has never read, but it’s something to do, so he won’t be trapping himself with only his thoughts.

If anything, he knows Felix has to return to his room eventually. It makes more sense to stay put if he intends to speak privately to him. It’s unlikely he’ll find Felix by wandering aimlessly through the monastery, especially considering the scattered areas he’s not allowed to venture in, and even if he does, Felix will not want to broach the topics of their argument in any open space he’s likely to be found.

It only makes sense to stay put.

So Sylvain goes to grab a late brunch meal, brings it back to his room, props up one of the more sizable tomes on the history of the land of Fódlan, and waits for the telltale sound of Felix’s room door opening to announce his return.

Sylvain waits.

and waits.

and waits.

He finishes the text, half reading intently while listening for the sound of Felix’s door, pausing after every chapter to stretch and pace in silence, straining to hear for sounds of movement, shuffling, just in case he missed Felix’s return to his room.

There’s nothing. No sounds but for himself and the occasional distant noises of other rooms on the floor below.

He reads through another text on the history of the Alliance, and another on infantry tactics as the sun moves across the sky, brightening and slowly dimming the light in his room.

Still nothing.

When hunger drives him out of his room again late in the afternoon, he chances a knock on Felix’s door on the way out.

No response.

When he returns, he dares to try the door.

Locked. And only silence when he shoves at it. Not even a disgruntled yell to tell him to go away.

Felix still hasn’t returned.

As he finishes his dinner in the silence of his room, a grain of anxiety makes its home in his gut, shrinking his appetite even as he picks at his meal.

Is Felix so mad that he’d avoid him to such an extent? To leave in the morning given Sylvain slept in isn’t really out of the ordinary, especially if Felix woke up angry. But to avoid returning to his room all day - not even between duties, after meals, not even to return to retrieve anything he might need or have forgotten?

Sylvain can’t stomach the rest of the plate and pushes it away, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on the table with a sigh.

It must have been worse than he thought, the hurt he’d inflicted with his words last night, for Felix to go to such lengths to avoid being anywhere near him, to avoid even his own room because it’s close to Sylvain.

There’s a winding curl of guilt, making itself at home inside him, brushing up the ever present lump of self-loathing he’s done well to push aside all this time.

Well that settles it, doesn’t it? He has to apologize; sooner rather than later. There’s still the muted twinge of upset, the leftover residue of stagnant anger, leftover resentment, under the rising tide of anxiety, uncertainty, guilt; but he can push that aside, to deal with after.

After all, he can’t address that with Felix until Felix is willing to speak with him, and with things like this it’s unlikely Felix will entertain his time until after he’s said sorry.

Sylvain waits out the evening, in hopes Felix will return - he has to, so late in the day - but it’s to no avail. Felix’s door goes untouched the rest of the evening. No sound of the door, no telltale shuffle of movement or life beyond the walls.

He chances another knock after he washes up for the night, stopping by the door to rap his knuckles against the wood, then harder, calling for Felix to answer if he’s inside.

Nothing.

Sylvain returns to his room dejected, anxious, and feeling the flare of guilt once again. Over all of that, a new feeling - that of worry - starts to make itself known.

Where could Felix have gone, to stay away so long?

 _‘Tomorrow,’_ he decides as he readies for bed, ‘ _I’ll find him and apologize to him tomorrow.’_

He lies awake in bed in the dark of the night, facing his desk and Felix’s room, beyond the walls, listening, hoping for Felix to return.

In the dark before sleep takes him, there is only silence.

**~o.O.o~**

Sylvain wakes up earlier the following day, closer to the usual hour he’s been waking up the last two weeks. If he’s quick, he has ample time to catch Felix before he leaves his room, provided the other man hasn’t changed his routine.

He washes up quickly, returning to his room to change from his nightclothes to proper day wear - pulling on a clean set of dark trousers, a maroon shirt, leaving the laces half done, to finish after he pulls on his boots - and darting out of his room as soon as he’s presentable.

He stands outside Felix’s door awkwardly for a bit, unsure if he should knock. He can’t hear anything beyond the door but if Felix is still asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up and start the morning off on the wrong foot.

So he waits instead, leaning against the wall across from the closed door, sliding down to a crouch, then sitting, as the minutes tick by.

Nothing. The door remains closed, and there’s no telltale sounds of life or of someone going through their morning routine.

Sylvain frowns, waiting as long as he feels comfortable. When it’s clear the hour is beginning to cut into the usual hour Felix has to start his morning duties, Sylvain chances a knock on the door.

“Felix?” he calls, rapping his knuckles against the door, making a solid sound.

When there’s no answer, he puts his hand on the knob and twists.

Locked.

Sylvain groans and knocks his forehead against the door. Of course. Felix must have taken an early morning. He missed him entirely. No choice then, he’ll have to search.

He strides purposefully out of the dormitories, making a quick stop by the dining hall to grab a breakfast roll to stave off his morning hunger, and begins to map out a search route through the monastery. He just has to find Felix. That’s the first step. Figuring out the logistics of what he wants to say and how to say it - he can figure that out after he finds him.

Starting with the main building, Sylvain hurries through the monastery, trying to remember the most frequent places Felix ends up based on two weeks of accompanying him on his daily tasks. He rushes about - from the main building of the monastery, to the knights hall, to the armoury - looking all around for any sign of Felix. Imperial soldiers watch him as he goes. None of them stop him or ask what he’s doing, but many of them stare, scrutinizing him, wary and suspicious, likely unused to seeing him wander about alone without Felix at his side. If one or two follow him to see what he’s up to, he doesn’t stop to look or check.

Sylvain tries to ignore them, popping his head into open rooms, skirting the edges of guarded areas he knows he’s not allowed. He spots Caspar at the training grounds, yelling exuberantly at what looks like half a battalion of brawlers, going through forms, but leaves before he can catch his attention. Felix isn’t there and he doesn’t know how best to speak with Caspar yet. Probably best not to disturb him if he’s busy.

On his second round through the monastery, he spots Dorothea by the marketplace, speaking with a merchant and a small squadron of imperial soldiers next to a wagon of supplies. She spots him as well, but pointedly ignores him when he gives a sheepish wave. She’s still mad then. That’s another apology he’ll have to give. He passes quickly to cut through the stables to look into the knight’s hall again - he’ll apologize to Felix first, this one is a bigger one he owes. One at a time.

On his third pass by the armoury, unable to go inside, the guard standing outside it asks him what he’s looking for, neutrally but with a suspicious narrowing of her eyes.

“I’m looking for Felix, er, uh, General Fraldarius?” Sylvain says awkwardly with an easy smile, opening his stance, practiced, to put ladies at ease.

She doesn’t look entirely taken by his smile, but does give him a quick once over from head to toe before shaking her head, determining he’s not here for nefarious reasons at least, “Haven’t seen him.”

“Well, if you see him,” Sylvain says, “Could you let him know I’m looking for him?”

“Sure,” she says agreeably, even as she frowns at him, and Sylvain nods in thanks, with a grin he hopes is half as charming as people say it is, and leaves to look elsewhere again.

By the end of his third round of the monastery, Sylvain dares to consider sneaking into the second floor of the main building. He’s starting to grow tired, from running around the expanse of the grounds, and he hasn’t caught a single glimpse or hint as to Felix’s whereabouts. The few imperial soldiers who have approached him to ask what he’s doing haven’t seen him either. So either Felix is in a part of the monastery Sylvain isn’t allowed, or he’s not at the monastery at all.

He’s not sure which of the two is worse.

If Felix is in a restricted area, then he’s probably busy and Sylvain would just be barging into his work space, complicating matters if he makes an attempt to seek him out, especially since he’s not allowed there. Either that or he’s actively avoiding Sylvain and so has decided to sequester himself to forbidden areas.

If he’s away...

Sylvain doesn’t know why Felix would be away without anyone knowing.

The thought of it makes the lump of anxiety in his chest grow.

He mulls it over for several minutes, pacing by the stairwell of the main building, weighing the pros and cons of taking a quick peek through the offices to determine if Felix is upstairs

When there’s a space of time where nobody walks by or towards the stairwell, and after Sylvain strains his ears to hear if anyone is coming down the stairwell and hears nothing, he makes his decision and darts up as quietly as he is able. A quick peek, in and out. He’s not sticking around to find imperial secrets and as long as he’s quiet and nobody catches him, no harm, no foul.

The alternative is to wait, and after yesterday, he doesn’t think he can keep doing that.

Luckily, there’s nobody in the hall between the audience chamber and the offices when he emerges from the stairwell. There’s really no reason he can think of for why Felix would ever be in the audience chamber, so Sylvain darts towards the offices instead, taking light steps.

He pauses, back to the wall, before the first two doorways. The old captain’s quarters looks empty, but Seteth’s old office, or rather - if Sylvain’s memory of recent events is correct - Ferdinand’s current office, is unfortunately occupied by Ferdinand von Aegir himself.

Sylvain mentally curses. He should have expected this, honestly, but he’d hoped otherwise. Bad start.

The man looks occupied, with a pile of papers in front of him, flipping through a logbook as he does whatever he does with the papers in front of him. If Sylvain is quick and quiet, he can probably make it past him. He’ll figure out the way back if he succeeds.

Sylvain takes one, two quick breaths, holds the third, and darts past the open doorway, then freezes.

Ferdinand doesn’t say anything.

He takes it as a win, and continues on as quietly as he can.

Unfortunately, his brief victory is not followed by any others. Hanneman’s old office is empty, and there’s only what looks to be an imperial bishop in Manuela’s old infirmary, taking a nap in the bed tucked in the corner. Whether it’s a patient or whoever is in charge of the infirmary nowadays, Sylvain doesn’t stop to check.

A quick run by the cardinals’ room finds the doors open - a novelty for Sylvain, who has only ever seen them closed during his time at the academy - but the room is devoid of people. The cardinal’s office next door, likewise, is empty. It appears to be a quiet morning at Garreg Mach. Sylvain would be thankful if not for the fact it also means Felix isn’t here.

Sylvain chances a quick check of the library, but finds no sign of Felix there. Linhardt’s slumped form, however, is present at one of the tables. He’s dead asleep on top of an open tome. Sylvain hurries to leave before he wakes.

It looks like this quick search is a bust, like the others from the morning.

Well at least he knows Felix isn’t here. Maybe he should do another round of the monastery grounds, or just camp out at the dining hall through the lunch hour - Felix has to eat, right?

He approaches Ferdinand’s office a second time - this time to dart past to the stairwell, hopefully without being seen. Again, he takes a breath, peeks in - he’s still bent over his papers, good - exhales, takes another breath, holds it, and darts past.

“...Do you need something, Sylvain?” Ferdinand calls, knowingly, before Sylvain can make a break for the stairwell, right as he clears the doorway.

_Shit._

Caught, Sylvain grits his teeth, turns around, takes a breath, and looks sheepishly back through the doorway, a disarming smile on his face. Time to put on the charm, he supposes. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll only get locked up in his room in the dormitories for this transgression, “...Er, uh... No!” he responds as convincingly as he is able, “Nothing! I’m leaving; wrong turn, sorry didn’t mean to be up here.”

Ferdinand raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t look angry yet, but his face says he is absolutely, not at all convinced Sylvain didn’t mean to be up here.

Sylvain winces, “...I’m not in trouble, am I?” he asks meekly, clasping his hands together in front of him, lowering his head, non threateningly, like a schoolboy caught breaking the rules.

Probably too on the nose for him.

The other man snaps his logbook shut, resting an elbow on his desk and leaning forward over it, “It depends on your reason for being here. I’m willing to listen, if you have an explanation.”

Sylvain contemplates all the possible things he could say to explain his sneaking onto the second floor, but none of them are less damning than the truth. So he opts for honesty.

“I’m looking for Felix,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck, “I, uh...” he fidgets, lowering his hand, “You haven’t happened to have seen him, have you? I swear he’s disappeared, nobody knows where he is.”

Ferdinand leans back, “Ah,” he says in realization, “He didn’t tell you.”

Sylvain stares back at him, swallowing, nervous suddenly. “Tell me what?” he asks, feeling the gnaw of apprehension, as he becomes aware he’s missing a crucial piece of the puzzle about why Felix has been so elusive as of late.

Ferdinand sighs, getting to his feet, rounding his desk to approach Sylvain at the door, “Felix left yesterday morning on a mission,” he says, stepping down from the elevated platform the desk is on, “He’ll be back in a few days time, assuming he doesn’t run into any trouble.”

Felix left on a mission?

So that means...

“Oh,” Sylvain says lamely, as disappointment makes itself known, yanking at the core of him to wallow back in the pit of guilt and upset that’s spent the last two days making a merry home in his chest, “Okay, so he’s... he’s not here.”

Ferdinand stops walking, having reached a comfortable space away to speak to him face to face. He gives a small smile and shakes his head once, “I’m afraid not.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath, to shove aside the growing well of upset, to exit the situation as gracefully as he can , “...Uh,” he says, “Sorry to bother you Ferdinand--”

“Would you like to join me for tea, Sylvain?” the other man interrupts before Sylvain can cut his losses and retreat back to wallow in misery in his room.

“Uh,” he says dumbly, his plans interrupted, his thoughts caught up and not yet ready to form a response.

“I realize that without Felix here, you may find yourself bereft of something do to,” Ferdinand continues as Sylvain stares at him, “I imagine the reason Felix was so eager to take a mission on short notice may have something to do with you sneaking up here in defiance of the boundaries I gave you. If you would like to talk to somebody, I am willing to lend an ear.”

Sylvain can’t keep eye contact, gaze darting off to the side at the bookshelf against the wall. He doesn’t really want to talk to Ferdinand von Aegir right now, especially not about this. “...I uh,” he deflects with a self-deprecating grin, “I don’t want to bother you. I mean, you’re running this whole place right now, so--”

“I have time,” Ferdinand says simply, brushing his concerns aside, watching him steadily, his brown eyes inscrutable, “And I will admit I am... concerned. I prefer not to have Felix take too many missions involving multiple day travel so close together, but he seemed particularly intent on leaving the monastery in want of something to do. If this becomes a long standing issue, I would like to be aware of it before it becomes a problem for one of my best swordsmen stationed here.”

When he puts it like that it sounds like something dire, something Sylvain can’t refuse on good conscience. With what he said, now Sylvain feels _responsible_ for Felix’s departure. Considering the fact that Felix is probably an important piece of the army stationed here, his absence would be a problem. Of course the commander of the stronghold would want to know why one of his generals has left so suddenly.

Sylvain bites his lip. He doesn’t really trust Ferdinand, but the man has been more of less cordial to him all this time. Given Ferdinand’s position at the monastery currently and the power he technically has over Sylvain’s position here, the least Sylvain owes him is an explanation if Felix didn’t explain it before he left.

Ferdinand worded it like an invitation to tea, but considering things between them, it might as well be an order to take part in a proper questioning.

“Well?” Ferdinand prompts.

“Yeah, okay, if you have time,” Sylvain says quietly. Agreeing to tea may be better for him in the long term. If he makes nice with Ferdinand now, it won’t give him reason to revoke whatever permissions he’s given him to walk around unsupervised. “I... Yeah we can talk.”

“Excellent,” Ferdinand declares with a smile, stepping out of his office and shutting the door behind him, pulling out a key to lock the door, “Come on then,” he beckons Sylvain to follow, walking towards the stairwell, “I know an excellent spot for mid-morning tea.”

Sylvain takes a breath, straightens his back, and follows.

**~o.O.o~**

Ferdinand leads him, first to the kitchens by way of a hidden staff and servants’ corridor where he makes small talk with the kitchen staff while he procures the materials and supplies he needs for a sitting of morning tea. Sylvain hovers awkwardly by the door, mulling over how best to approach his inevitable questioning as Ferdinand charms the kitchen staff, chatting with them amicably as they work with and around him.

When he’s done, Ferdinand politely declines assistance with the tray and balances it in his hands as he tips his head for Sylvain to follow him, and leads him back out. From there, they walk through the halls in an unfamiliar route through the monastery to wherever Ferdinand intends to take him.

Eventually they reach a small sitting room, somewhere to the side of the main building, at the end of a narrow hallway Sylvain can’t be sure he’d ever noticed during his time as an academy student. He sits and looks around the room as Ferdinand fusses with the settings, arranging the saucers and cups to his liking, before setting the accompanying plate of tea biscuits opposite the teapot. There’s two large bay windows, letting in a generous amount of sunlight, looking out at the green space of what Sylvain thinks might be the officers’ academy courtyard, and the room is furnished tastefully with dark oak furniture and a landscape painting of a lush green valley is on display on one of the walls.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Ferdinand speaks up, apologetically as he fusses with the tea pot, having prepared the blend while Sylvain was distracted by the room, “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what blend would be to your preference. I would have asked Felix, but...” he gives a little sigh as he finally settles in the chair across from Sylvain, leaving the tea alone to steep, “Well, he’s never really been particularly inclined to the finer points of tea.”

Sylvain bites his cheek, fighting back a reluctant smile. That sounds like Felix - ever since he was young, he’d had trouble sitting still for tea. As soon as he drained the cup he wanted to run off and play, or explore, or, as he grew older, to train. “Um, it’s...” Sylvain flounders, unsure what he can say in response, “Don’t worry about that,” he decides, “I’ll drink anything.” He’s certainly sat through more than enough tea parties with all sorts of girls and young women, while trying to get into their good graces or avoid them, and they all had different preferences for blends. He hasn’t met one he couldn’t stomach yet.

“Well at least let me know if this is to your taste,” Ferdinand says, passing over the package he’d retrieved the leaves from, “I confess it’s been a while since I’ve had a good cup of Seiros tea so I’m afraid I’m indulging a craving,” he says as Sylvain looks over the tin, “Unfortunately, not many out there can appreciate the finer points of the blend.”

Seiros tea, huh? That certainly brings back memories: his mother’s cold hands, the warmth of her sitting room, and the patient but distant way she recited and taught him the proper etiquette and customs to impress friends over tea. Her private sitting room used to be a reliable haven from the mounting expectations of his father, the resentful vitriol of his brother. Sylvain swallows, “Oh, uh... I like Seiros tea, actually,” he says quietly, handing the package back.

“...You do?” Ferdinand asks. Sylvain looks back at him, but the other man’s eyes are wide in genuine surprise. He supposes it’s not commonly liked, despite the significant figure for which the tea is named - it has a reputation as a blend that only the most elite of tea aesthetes can enjoy its finer points, else it’s just another bitter tea. To Sylvain, it’s a scent and taste that reliably brought rare warmth to the Gautier chill of his upbringing.

“Uh yeah, I...” he shrugs, “My mother drank it a lot. You could say I acquired the taste.”

Ferdinand breaks into a wide smile, “Wonderful,” he declares, “Well, I’m glad to know that. If I have a craving for the blend again in the future I’ll know who to invite to tea.” He reaches for the teapot, deciding the tea has steeped long enough.

“Er, sure,” Sylvain says awkwardly, as Ferdinand pours for Sylvain first, then himself, setting the teapot back on the tray. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy tea - he does - but he’s not sure sure about the company. It’s not that Ferdinand isn’t likeable as a person, he can admit. Sylvain just feels his circumstances would make having tea regularly with Ferdinand probably more awkward than it needs to be. Ferdinand ought to be more discerning of who he invites to tea, being the general in charge of the stronghold, all things considered.

“Well then,” Ferdinand declares, gesturing for Sylvain to drink, “If you don’t mind.”

Sylvain obliges, taking a waft then a sip. It’s good, the taste is not as good as he remembers it, but that could just be nostalgia at play. Ferdinand mirrors him, just a beat slower. His tea time etiquette is textbook perfect.

For a moment, they just sit, across from each other, savouring the taste, the scent of the tea in the room. Ferdinand, in particular, seems to be enjoying the blend, eyes closed as he holds the cup delicately in his hands, savouring the scent of it even after his first sip. Sylvain isn’t nearly as enamoured with tea, despite his liking for the blend, so he ends up setting the teacup down on its saucer, reaching for a tea biscuit to occupy his hands as Ferdinand has his moment.

“So, Sylvain,” Ferdinand finally says once he’s sufficiently enjoyed his first few sips, setting the teacup down just as Sylvain finishes the first bite he took from his biscuit, “How have you been? I’ve been meaning to ask how your time has been at Garreg Mach, since you’ve been given freedom to roam.”

“Uh...fine,” Sylvain says after swallowing his bite, “I guess.” He doesn’t really know how else to answer the question.

Ferdinand leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his crossed knees, “Just fine?”

“I mean, it feels kind of weird not... having responsibilities, and sometimes it’s...” Sylvain sighs, resting an elbow on the armrest of his chair and ruffling his hair, “I don’t have anything to do,” he admits reluctantly.

“Ah, Felix asked me if you were permitted to visit the library, a few days ago,” Ferdinand recalls, glancing aside as he remembers, “He mentioned you were getting bored.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees.

Being able to walk around with Felix while he did his work was exciting in a novel way for maybe the first three days. After that it quickly became bland. He still feels awkward in the monastery - out of place. Without responsibilities, he’s bereft of purpose. With free time, usually he pursues dalliances with ladies, but given his position he hasn’t been particularly motivated to woo Empire ladies. It seems like a mission in futility and a recipe for disaster. The whole ‘war with Faerghus’ thing is also a huge mood killer - he’s hardly worked through his own feelings about himself leaving Faerghus. Hanging out with Empire girls who likely fought in battle against Kingdom troops feels... uncomfortable, for lack of a better word.

“He told me you said no,” Sylvain sighs, and continues before Ferdinand can say anything about his complaining, “I get it, I mean, I wouldn’t want somebody I wasn’t sure I could trust with sensitive information wandering around in an area where you have a lot of strategy meetings.”

“Well, if it’s books you’re looking for, you could let me know which genres you have a preference for,” Ferdinand says, bringing a hand up to his chin in thought, “I can retrieve a selection for you to read. I’m afraid the library doesn’t get much use nowadays, with the monastery being more of a fort than a place of learning. I think it would be a good thing if the books were doing more than gathering dust.”

“Oh,” Sylvain says dumbly. It’s a kind offer. Exceedingly kind, considering Ferdinand’s role, position, and likely workload at the monastery currently, “Uh, you don’t have to do that. Felix already grabbed a few for me.”

Ferdinand gives a knowing smile and a small huff of a laugh, “...Knowing Felix,” he says, “I feel his selection for you may be lacking. I don’t mind. I’m on the second floor most of the time anyway.”

Sylvain chews on the inside of his cheek. Ferdinand isn’t wrong. Felix’s book selection is pretty indicative of a random grab from various shelves. It’s not like Felix isn’t well read, but he clearly doesn’t read for leisure. Not anymore. “Aren’t you... busy?” Sylvain asks with a wince.

It’s one thing to take the offer. It’s another if it’s a major inconvenience for Ferdinand. Not that Ferdinand would offer if he didn’t want to do it, but it seems like more trouble than it’s worth, especially given Hubert looking for excuses to catch Sylvain being an actual problem. Needlessly occupying the time of the man entrusted with defending Garreg Mach as its leading general seems like it could be considered a problem for someone as critical as Hubert.

“I can make time,” Ferdinand assures, reaching for a tea biscuit himself, “Part of the perks of being in charge, as it were,” he says, waving the biscuit with a smile.

“Oh. Sure,” Sylvain accedes, at the insistence. He’d be lying if he said he was fine with just the books he has so far, and Felix isn’t around to refresh the selection. Ferdinand’s offering, so, “If you don’t mind.”

There’s a pause as Ferdinand watches him, gaze expectant, chewing on the tea biscuit. Sylvain isn’t sure what he’s looking for so he doesn’t say anything, reaching for his teacup to take a sip.

“...Do you want to tell me what sorts of books you’re looking for...?” Ferdinand prompts eventually, when Sylvain lets the pause go on for too long.

Oh, Ferdinand wanted him to tell him _now_? Sylvain can barely think about what he wants to do today, with Felix’s apparent departure having basically thrown his plans out the window, “I... need to think about it,” he says, hesitantly, “I’ll let you know.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand nods.

They fall into another awkward silence, as Ferdinand watches Sylvain over the rim on his teacup after he’s taken it for another sip, and Sylvain stares blankly at the plate of tea biscuits on the table, unsure of what Ferdinand wants or what to say next.

After a moment - the silence stretching out beyond the limits of propriety, interrupted only by muffled noises of movement, imperial troops and people going about their business in the monastery building and the grounds outside - Ferdinand sighs, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs the other way, setting his teacup aside again and looking Sylvain in the eye, “What’s on your mind, Sylvain?” he asks directly, “You look troubled.”

Sylvain chews on his lip. They’ve run out of small talk. He supposes it’s time for the actual questioning then. “It’s... Nothing,” he says, gaze darting up to meet Ferdinand's before it drifts to the side, past his head, “Don’t get me wrong but it’s...” he takes a breath, “It’s really not something for you to be concerned about.”

Ferdinand watches him critically, his expression schooled into a stern look of consideration, “...I’m afraid if it impacts the behaviour of one of my generals, then it is something for me to be concerned about,” he says, carefully.

Sylvain winces. He supposes that’s right. Ferdinand may have let Felix take off, but Felix deciding suddenly that he has to take a mission away from the monastery does mean that Ferdinand, as the commander of the fort, has to account for his absence.

Still, their argument... It’s private business, Sylvain thinks stubbornly. Ferdinand won’t understand it - understand him, or Felix even - and Sylvain isn’t comfortable sharing it with an Empire general in his position. Especially not one so close to Hubert von Vestra, and by extension the Emperor of Adrestia as well. Sylvain’s under no illusions that anything Ferdinand finds out isn’t conveyed to other imperial leadership. This is definitely something he doesn’t want to talk about with him - at least not without resolving it with Felix first.

Sylvain opts to say nothing.

Ferdinand sighs, disappointed. Sylvain tries not to let it get to him. Hearing the sound of it brings up the feeling of being scolded, reprimanded by a professor because he’s refusing to explain why he’s misbehaved, “What happened, Sylvain?” he asks.

“What, Felix didn’t tell you?” Sylvain deflects, leaning back and crossing his arms, keeping his gaze glued over the other man’s shoulder, refusing to look him in the eye, “You’re in charge of him, not of me.”

“I know better than to demand Felix tell me what’s bothering him before he’s ready to share it,” Ferdinand responds, tapping a hand on his armrest, “I can trust him to manage his thoughts and feelings when it comes to work. I simply want to know if this will be a recurrent issue.”

“It won’t,” Sylvain says firmly. He won’t let it be a recurrent issue. He’s determined a fight like this is going to be a one off. He can do that.

Ferdinand gives a rueful smile, shaking his head, “I can’t agree with you until I know more about what happened. It would be irresponsible of me to do so, so simply.”

It’s level headed thinking, entirely reasonable. Ferdinand is being responsible. Sylvain knows that in Ferdinand’s eyes, he can’t be trusted so simply at his word, at least not so curt a word. It doesn’t really quell the anxiousness in Sylvain’s gut and the dread he feels at the notion that he has to share what went down.

Private business aside, if Ferdinand finds out what Sylvain said... Well, Sylvain doesn’t want to piss away any goodwill the man has for him. He knows which of the two - between von Aegir and von Vestra - vouched for him to be given a chance.

“Sylvain,” Ferdinand says gently, when he continues to refuse to speak, “I know you have your grievances with your situation and your stay here are Garreg Mach, but I am not your enemy.”

Sylvain smothers a scoff into a disbelieving huff of breath, “Aren’t you?” he asks monotonously, frowning at his half-filled cup of tea.

Ferdinand makes a humouring sort of sound, reaching over to refill his cup, “Are you confessing to me right now that you’re an active Kingdom spy?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.

Sylvain stares at him, “No. I...” he nods his thanks for the tea before shifting his position, hunching over, arms crossed, “I’m not. I really...” he bites his lip, gaze darting away again, “I really can’t go back,” he says quietly, but firmly, “I don’t intend to.”

Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t know where to start to formulate a plan.

It’s not like there would be any point - Sylvain’s pretty sure he _really_ can’t go back.

“...Well, good,” Ferdinand acknowledges, refilling his own cup before settling back in his chair again with a faint smile, bringing the cup to his lips, “I’d hate to have to order your death after all the trouble Felix and I went to plead your case for Hubert to spare you.”

“Felix pled my case?” Sylvain asks, tilting his head as Ferdinand sips at his tea. He hadn’t been aware Felix had been so involved in his fate at the monastery. “He made it seem like it really wasn’t in his hands...”

Ferdinand heaves a sigh, “Felix always underestimates how much weight his words hold,” he says unhappily, “I’m not sure why. He may have a unique perspective on many things, but his ideas have always been sound. Those of us of the Black Eagle class, at least, have always trusted his word. I try to remind him of it, but it never quite seems to sink in.”

Sylvain swallows, feeling a dull little ache in his chest. He knows Felix is headstrong and prone to harsh words, but to hear that Ferdinand believes Felix may lack confidence his words would be listened to... He can imagine where that might stem from, given Felix’s animosity towards his father and Dimitri even, after the Tragedy, years ago.

He hopes he hasn’t been giving Felix the impression that he doesn’t listen to him.

“Felix pushed for you to be given a chance, Sylvain,” Ferdinand continues, pulling Sylvain from his thoughts back to the present.

“Ok, yeah,” Sylvain acquiesces with a shrug, leaning back in his chair again, “But he’s... we’re friends, you know. Of course he was going to fight for me to have a chance.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Ferdinand responds carefully, setting his cup aside to free his hands, clasping them together as he leans forward to look Sylvain in the eye, “He gave Hubert an ultimatum to ensure your opportunity to stay here would be more or less a guarantee.”

Sylvain stares at him, uncomprehending.

“I suppose he didn’t tell you,” Ferdinand continues as Sylvain watches him speak, clutching at the teacup in his hands, “But before Hubert left to consult Edelgard on the matter of your being here, Felix informed him that if we decided to have you eliminated, he couldn’t say if he would be able on good conscience to continue fighting for the Empire.”

Felix did _what_?

Words fail Sylvain, “He...” he stammers, mouth opening and closing as his mind starts whirling in a confused mess of feeling, “But he...”

Ferdinand doesn’t say anything, letting him absorb the information.

Felix _threatened to_ _leave the imperial army_ to convince Hubert von Vestra to spare Sylvain’s life?

“He’s...” Sylvain chokes, “He turned his back on everything to be here,” he says faintly.

“And he was willing to put it on the line to help your case,” Ferdinand nods, in confirmation.

Didn’t Felix say he gave up much to join this army? He said so during their argument. So then... “...Why would he do that?” Sylvain asks, looking to Ferdinand for answers.

It just... it doesn’t make sense. Why would Felix risk putting all his work to waste? For Sylvain?

“That’s not for me to speculate, I’m afraid,” Ferdinand says gently, reaching again for his cup of tea, “I don’t mean to presume, but I do believe you already know the answer.”

Does he? All he feels is confused. He’s not worth what Felix was willing to gamble. Where even would Felix go, if he were to leave the imperial army? He couldn’t go back to Faerghus. What other direction would he have had?

Sylvain looks down at his tea. It’s cooling in his hands now. He’s probably not going to finish the cup.

“I suppose my point is: you’re here now, in Garreg Mach, and Felix trusts you,” Ferdinand concludes, pulling Sylvain back again from the confused jumble of his thoughts, “That puts us on the same side. I’m not working against you, nor do I have specific aims to hurt you,” he takes another sip of tea, letting his last statement sink in, before he lowers his teacup again, cradling it in his hands, “Talk to me Sylvain,” he implores, “If you want me to keep it in confidence, so long as the knowledge doesn’t put the monastery and my people at risk, I promise I will do my utmost to do so.”

Sylvain’s mouth feels dry, despite the tea he’s been sipping at. He swallows, trying to shove that lump of uncertainty down and out of his throat. Despite every clear reason he shouldn’t, Ferdinand’s offer to maintain discrete about their discussion sounds genuine. He _shouldn’t_ _trust_ Sylvain, but here he is, asking Sylvain to share, and promising he’ll try his best to keep what he says in confidence, within limits. This is an offer of goodwill - a gesture that Ferdinand is willing to trust him.

Suddenly, Sylvain is struck by the realization that maybe this meeting isn’t an interrogation disguised by the niceties of tea ceremony, but a genuine invite to a talk over tea.

He tightens his grip on his cup. He doesn’t know what to think. Every instinct he has is telling him he can’t trust anyone here except Felix at their word because, logically, none of them trust him - and rightly so, all things considered. And yet, they do anyway; give him the benefit of the doubt - Dorothea and Bernadetta, Linhardt, Caspar, Ashe.

It had been so clear before - they were all making nice because Felix was here and they trusted him to keep Sylvain in line. It was an arrangement that made sense. Now, Felix isn’t here - driven away by Sylvain himself - and yet Ferdinand offers that same benefit all the same.

Sylvain swallows. Maybe... he ought to take a risk, and extend that benefit of the doubt back, himself.

He can’t go back to Faerghus. But does that mean he can’t move forward here, instead?

“Felix,” he rasps through the dryness in his throat, he coughs to clear it, and tries again, “Felix and I had an argument.”

Ferdinand keeps his gaze steady, his expression non-judgmental, “...A bad one, then, I assume?” he asks gently.

“Yeah,” Sylvain admits quietly, meeting his eyes briefly before he looks back down at his tea.

“...May I ask what about?"

“I’d... rather not get into it with you. Just...” Sylvain takes a breath, releases it in a defeated sigh, “It wasn’t nice. I said a lot of stuff. What I said was... Felix didn’t take it well and he said a lot of stuff back,” he shrugs, “We went our separate ways, and... I meant to apologize to him yesterday, but he never returned to the dorms. I went looking for him today, couldn’t find him. Now you’re telling me he apparently left the monastery, so...” he huffs, leaning back in his chair, finally putting his teacup back down on its saucer, “Here we are.”

Ferdinand makes a small sound of acknowledgement, running a finger along the edge of the cup in his hands, “Do you... believe this will be a continuing point of contention between you two?”

Sylvain shakes his head firmly, “Not if I can help it,” he declares.

Ferdinand tilts his head, “A conflict between two people is not usually solved by only one of them,” he says; a reprimand.

“Yeah, well,” Sylvain grumbles, bringing his hands together to rub his knuckles, pressing at the joints, “I upset Felix enough to make him leave the monastery entirely. I’d rather not go into it again if I can avoid it. He’s my friend. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“...Sylvain,” Ferdinand says reproachfully, with a sigh.

“What,” Sylvain says, feeling irritability rising in him again. What does Ferdinand know about his relationship with Felix? He doesn’t know what went down, and he can’t judge him. Sylvain knows himself and he knows Felix. He knows how to handle this.

“Just because you’re not technically a part of the army here doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be upset,” Ferdinand says, and Sylvain looks up again, staring him in the eye in muted surprise, “I don’t think Felix would be happy to know that just because you’re a guest here and not a general or a soldier, you feel like you should never air whatever grievances you have, and just stomach your upset instead.”

Sylvain just stares at him with his mouth open, his words having fled him. Ferdinand isn’t wrong, and Sylvain knows it too, if he gives it a bit of thought. Felix _wouldn’t_ be happy to know Sylvain was unhappy and keeping it to himself - that was why Sylvain had _intended_ to keep it to himself. If Felix didn’t know, then he couldn’t be made unhappy by the knowledge. But for Ferdinand to say it so plainly, and acknowledge to Sylvain’s face that his feelings do matter, despite his position here as merely a guest under Ferdinand’s eye...

It’s sobering. Humbling. Because Ferdinand might actually _care_ about him as a person, despite _everything_.

“Whatever you said to him, Sylvain, I’m sure it was hurtful,” Ferdinand continues, setting his teacup back on its saucer and leaning back again, seemingly done with his tea for now, “I won’t comment on that, but I don’t think it would have been enough for him to decide you’re no longer worth the effort to maintain your friendship. When he returns with a cooler head, I’m sure he’ll be willing to listen.”

Sylvain bites his lip, “I’d just...” he hesitates, looking down again, “I mean, usually when we argue I just make him angry. This time I...” he sniffs, “He was... It’s been a long time since he’s been that upset with me.”

“You haven’t seen each other in two years, Sylvain,” Ferdinand points out, stating the obvious since Sylvain won’t consider it, “I imagine it’s not going to be easy, to know each other as you once did all over again, especially considering the war.”

“...I know.” Sylvain sighs, defeated, “I just...” he hesitates again, afraid to voice his thoughts.

Ferdinand waits, patiently for him to find the courage to say them.

“...I don’t want him to hate me,” Sylvain says quietly, voice small.

He’s already left so much behind. He can’t lose Felix too. If he loses his friendship, his affection - what does Sylvain have left in this world?

“I don’t believe that’s something you have to worry about, Sylvain,” Ferdinand says reassuringly.

Sylvain looks up, back into his warm brown eyes. He’s smiling. Sylvain can’t help but feel reassured by his expression.

“I can’t claim to know Felix as well as you do,” Ferdinand concedes, “The length of my friendship with Felix can barely compare to the length of time in which you’ve been one of his closest friends. Even so,” he says simply, “I believe I can say with confidence that if you are willing to work past it, I know he will want to as well.”

Will he? Sylvain glances away. It’s been a long time since the last time he’d made Felix so upset - and since then they’ve changed so much. But... maybe Ferdinand has a point. In all their history together, Sylvain has never been able to go long after a fight with his friends without attempting to reconcile. He thinks that Felix is the same, still - he may avoid things initially if they bother him, but eventually he always confronts it. He cuts through.

“Just speak with him when he returns,” Ferdinand says, “I think that would be the best way forward, for both of you.”

“You don’t even know what I said to him,” Sylvain grumbles, just to be contrary. What Ferdinand is saying is easier said than done, but the words have done the work. Sylvain has already warmed to the idea.

“I don’t,” Ferdinand agrees, more amused than not, “But what you’ve said so far leads me to believe it’s not necessary for me to know. Besides, do you believe Felix would end your friendship just like that? Your argument may have been a bad one, but it’s just been the one, so far, and you seem keen to not repeat it. I’ve never known Felix to not fight for something he wants to keep and defend, and your friendship is one such thing he’s shown me he’s willing to put himself on the line for.”

Sylvain swallows. Felix had put himself on the line, hadn’t he, for Sylvain? That’s not something done lightly. When Ferdinand puts it like that, it really does seem unlikely that this fight is as bad as it had seemed.

As Sylvain dwells on his words, thoughts swirling in his mind, Ferdinand returns to fussing with the tea set, moving the teapot and the half-empty plate of biscuits off the table back onto the tray.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short,” the other man says, catching Sylvain’s attention again as he moves to take hold of the tray, “As much as I can make time for tea, I still have meetings in my schedule, and it would be remiss of me to be late.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Sylvain responds eloquently, as Ferdinand stands, jumping to his feet as well, so not as to awkwardly stare up at him, “Are you... sure you got everything you need from this conversation or...” he trails off. Surely Ferdinand would want to know... more information? Something more... useful than what they’ve just discussed? It just seems like Ferdinand spent the whole time reassuring Sylvain and Sylvain didn’t give him much of anything. Considering Sylvain snuck up onto the second floor in defiance of the rules Ferdinand set, it doesn’t seem like a good trade.

Ferdinand gives him a funny look, “We had tea, Sylvain. Not an interrogation,” he says with a wry smile, as if he knows what Sylvain’s thinking and thinks it’s silly, “If you’d like to share more, you can always ask me to talk in the future.”

“Right. Yeah okay,” Sylvain says, feeling silly after all. “I guess I’ll...” he hesitates, turns towards the door, thinks better of it, turns back, and gives Ferdinand an awkward nod, “Thanks for the tea,” he concludes lamely.

Ferdinand stifles what might be a laugh, “Anytime,” he says and heads to the door. “Oh!” he says, before he reaches for the knob, turning around again to face Sylvain, “Before we go."

Sylvain pauses where he stands, half in the act of following Ferdinand out the door.

“Any thoughts at all on the sorts of books you’d like from the library?” Ferdinand asks, “I just thought I should ask before I go. I can have some brought to your room by tonight.”

Tonight? Sylvain can’t say he won’t appreciate that, but for Ferdinand to to remember after their mess of a conversation, and to say he can have a rapid turnaround on the request...

“Uh, well,” he responds, caught on the spot, thinking quickly so as not to give Ferdinand another non answer on the topic - the least Sylvain can do is actually accept the offer and give Ferdinand something, if he’s so insistent, “Truth be told, I was kind of getting into the textbook series on reason you gave me to read when you locked me in the basement? I was on book seven. I’m kinda interested in reading through to the end of that. And... actually? If you have any historical books on the Empire, I... it might be a good idea if I did a bit of reading on that as well.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand nods, opening the door with one hand, balancing the tea tray in the other, “Consider it done.”

Sylvain rushes to the door to hold it open for him, “I... thanks,” he says, once Ferdinand walks past the threshold, “I know you’re really busy, running the place, so... I...” he winces at how awkward he sounds, “I appreciate this.”

“Of course, Sylvain,” Ferdinand responds easily. “Have a nice day,” he says in farewell, and turns to go, striding off confidently, every bit as self-assured as he seems.

“Uh, yeah,” Sylvain says to his retreating back, “See you around, Ferdinand,” as he watches him go.

**~o.O.o~**

With his one goal of the day waylaid due to Felix’s absence, Sylvain spends the rest of the morning wandering the monastery in a daze, lost in thought.

He feels a little better after speaking with Ferdinand. The aftermath of the argument he had with Felix doesn’t feel so big, so insurmountable anymore, but given he still has no way of resolving the conflict with Felix since he’s away from the monastery, he feels restless still. A low burn of anxiousness is beginning to settle in, inevitable and persistent, as it’s now clear that now he has to wait for Felix’s return before he can get anywhere with this situation.

So what else can he do?

He doesn’t particularly feel like reading the books he has left in his room, nor does he feel particular interested in wallowing in his room, anyway. He could keep wandering, but it’s clear, with the scrutiny he’s getting from imperial troops stationed at the monastery, that his aimless ambling about is making soldiers nervous. He’s caught one or two tailing him now, taking initiative to watch from a distance - and that’s besides the tail he knows von Vestra likely assigned to him is lurking somewhere, unseen. He’s getting bored of the same old sights anyway - there have been a couple changes to the monastery with imperial occupation, but otherwise the place is the same as it’s always been since he was a student not so long ago.

He could train - he’s allowed - but doing it without Felix seems like asking for trouble. Having to find a partner willing to spar with him aside, putting even a blunted weapon in his hands when he’s being watched by antsy imperial troops seems like a recipe for disaster.

Eventually his wandering stirs up an appetite and Sylvain ends up in the dining hall, picking through a serving of grilled herring and a side of stir fried vegetables as he wonders what he could do to keep himself occupied for the rest of the afternoon.

He could see his horse, he supposes. It’s been a while since he’s fussed over Belle and he ought to give her a critical look over, to see if Ferdinand is keeping to his word to keep her exercised and happy.

After lunch, Sylvain spends a good chunk of the early afternoon in the stables. Belle seems pleased to see him, and she looks well, not overfed or underfed, and she’s alert and interested, butting her head into his chest, snorting and shoving at him in search of treats.

Sylvain indulges her, feeding her chunks of apple before giving her a good once-over and setting to work to groom her. She’s probably being well-taken care of by the stable hands, but Sylvain figures it couldn’t hurt to do it himself - just to make sure she doesn’t forget him if they’re spoiling her more than he does.

It’s nice mind-numbing work. With a horse to focus on, it’s easy to let his worries float to the back of his mind where they can sit unobtrusively, easily ignored in favour of what’s in front of him. It’s nice, and her presence is comforting. By the time he’s done, he’s reluctant to pack up and go find somewhere else to do nothing in, so he takes his time, letting her distract him when she nudges him for attention, giving extra pats and cooing in between each tool he puts away.

He’s down to the last of it, in the middle of aggressively giving his attention hungry horse another session of affectionate pats and rubs on her head over the stall door when he’s interrupted.

“Oh, Sylvain!” a voice calls, and he gives a start, head jerking up, surprised he’s being sought at all.

At the mouth of the stables, striding over with a friendly wave, is Ashe, approaching with a friendly grin.

“Oh, uh, hey Ashe,” Sylvain says, giving Belle a final pat - which she snorts at, swinging her head to look over at the newcomer - before stepping back from the stall door, letting his arms fall to his sides.

Ashe slows his approach, looking self conscious suddenly, as if remembering himself, “Are you... feeling better?” he asks, and Sylvain frowns, “You weren’t quite yourself last I saw you.”

Sylvain winces, remembering how he was last he saw the sniper, “Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his head apologetically, “I was just... tired, you know,” he says with an awkward shrug.

Ashe doesn’t look like he completely believes him, but doesn’t press it, giving a small smile instead, “It’s good I’ve found you,” he says, “I was looking for Felix but I’ve had no luck finding him. Would you happen to know where he is?”

Sylvain winces, “Oh,” he says, reluctantly, “Uh, he’s not here.”

“Oh, is he busy?” Ashe asks, oblivious, as Sylvain feels a trickle of apprehension, discomfort climbing up his neck, “That’s alright I can find him later, I guess.”

“What are you looking for him for?” Sylvain asks, hoping it’s nothing big. He feels bad enough having forced Felix to leave. To know Felix’s departure would have gotten in the way of something important would only make him feel worse.

“Oh! Well, when we happen to be in the same place, we usually have a sit down together to chat. Just to catch up, see how the other one is doing,” Ashe responds with a small smile, looking down fondly, “It’s... something we started doing with Mercedes when the war started, but it’s been so long since we’ve seen her that it’s just been Felix and I mostly...” he trails off.

“Oh,” Sylvain says. So it’s not official business, but he feels kind of bad all the same. Ashe has only just returned to the monastery, looking forward to seeing Felix again and then Sylvain went and had a fight with him and chased him off. “Uh, well, he’s...” Sylvain bites his lip, “He’s not here.”

Ashe turns his gaze back to him and looks, carefully, at his face. His expression is scrutinizing. Neutral but pointed, looking for what he means exactly, “...What do you mean by ‘not here’?” he asks carefully.

“He uh, left the monastery,” Sylvain responds, trying not to shuffle awkwardly where he stands, “On a mission.”

“Oh,” Ashe says, and a disappointed furrow appears between his brows, “That’s...”

“Sorry,” Sylvain blurts out, before he can feel even worse about it.

“Well, don’t apologize,” Ashe responds with a shake of his head, giving a small huff of a laugh to reassure him, “It’s not your fault, bit of bad timing I suppose.”

If only he knew.

Sylvain looks away, off to the side, hesitant. He doesn’t say anything in response.

Belle whickers at him. Even his horse is scolding him now.

“Sylvain?” Ashe asks, when he’s conspicuously silent for too long.

“I... well,” Sylvain stutters, bringing his hands together to rub at the joints of his fingers, press against his knuckles, “Maybe it kind of is?” he says, questioningly, “My fault?”

Ashe stares at him. His smile has faded, and he looks serious now, eyes wide but evaluating. “...What... happened?” he asks. He sounds concerned.

Sylvain shuffles nervously, “We uh, we had an argument. And he took off yesterday morning so...” he trails off, unsure of what else to say. Probably best not to get into it. Felix got mad enough; if he goes into detail, Ashe would get mad too.

Not that he wouldn’t have a right to, but Sylvain would rather keep the number of people actively angry with him to a minimum, considering where he is.

“...Oh,” Ashe says eventually.

He doesn’t say anything else.

For a moment, the two of them just stare at each other. Sylvain feeling jittery under the weight of Ashe’s gaze. Ashe looking on curiously but guarded, as if he’s wary of knowing what Sylvain and Felix argued about.

“Well, then. I guess I’ll look for him when he gets back,” Ashe decides, when the awkward moment stretches on for longer than he’s comfortable with, starting to turn away, back to the mouth of the stables to leave, “Thanks, Sylvain. I’ll just-”

“Actually Ashe,” Sylvain cuts in, a thought suddenly coming to mind, and he jumps to voice it before he can second guess himself, “If you have some time, I... wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Ashe pauses where he stands, turning back cautiously, “...What about?” he asks.

“About uh, your time with the Empire,” Sylvain responds, “And Felix’s as well,” he adds, looking down, “I...”

The sniper blinks, watching carefully as Sylvain looks for the right words.

Sure, Sylvain wasn’t here the last two years, not at Felix’s side - but Ashe has been, at least for a large part of it from the beginning of the war. If Sylvain wants to know more about what life was like for Felix in the two years they were on opposite sides... then Ashe could be a valuable source of information.

Ideally he’d get the information from Felix himself, but if he’s not here... he could get some of it from the people around him. If he can find out more... then he can go into their next conversation with more knowledge, more understanding.

They can talk on more even footing.

Besides, he knows Ashe. Wouldn’t it be a good thing? To know more from someone they both know?

“I know we... caught up a bit,” Sylvain says, looking the shorter man in the eye, “But we didn’t really get into it, did we?”

“I suppose not,” Ashe says, neutrally, glancing to the side, considering.

Sylvain waits.

“Is this what you fought with Felix about?”

“No!” Sylvain exclaims, then winces, “I mean... sort of? I just...”

Ashe huffs, crossing his arms.

“When Felix left,” Sylvain says suddenly, before Ashe can say something in response, “I realized... there was a lot of stuff I didn’t know and maybe a lot of stuff I assumed. I just...” he groans in frustration, “I want to know what happened, so when I see Felix again we can be on the same page.”

Ashe sighs, “...I... don’t know how much I can help you, Sylvain,” he says, carefully, keeping his eyes on him as he speaks, “If you want to know about Felix, it’s best to speak with Felix,” he shakes his head, “I can’t share his secrets.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sylvain assures him, raising a hand to wave his concerns aside, “It’s just... Felix won’t talk to me.”

“Have you tried asking him?” Ashe asks, smartly,

Sylvain huffs, trying not to feel too chided, “Well, he won’t walk to me _now_.”

Ashe just frowns at him, in response.

Sylvain chews on his lip under his scrutiny. What happened to the nervous boy Ashe used to be - earnest but skittish in the company of noble folk? The war’s given him a spine of steel and more, with the way he’s staring him down.

“Please, Ashe,” Sylvain asks, just short of pleading, quietly.

“I suppose I have some time...” Ashe relents, shaking his head, “Did you... want to talk in private, or...”

“That’d be best,” Sylvain nods, trying not to do so eagerly, feeling a swell of relief at Ashe’s agreement.

“We can chat in my room,” Ashe offers, “If that’s alright?”

“That’s fine,” Sylvain agrees quickly, “Thank you, Ashe. I really appreciate it.”

“Well don’t thank me yet,” Ashe says dubiously as he strides off, gesturing for Sylvain to follow, “I can’t promise I’ll have all the answers, Sylvain, but we’ll see where this goes.”

Sylvain gives Belle one last stroke and a murmur of farewell, and rushes to follow the sniper before he can leave him behind. With the prospect of answers, his stride is hurried, but light.

**~o.O.o~**

Ashe’s room is the same as the one he once had as a student of the academy.

Sylvain has never been inside, not having had the chance to become particularly close to the other former Blue Lion prior to his swap to the Black Eagle class early in the year, but even he can see the little personal touches the sniper has made to make the room feel like his own.

There’s two quivers leaning against the wall by the door - one empty, the other full of carefully fletched arrows. A steel bow sits on the desk, unstrung, and in the far corner, a battered longbow sits - whether Ashe means to repair and restore it or is leaving it there to toss one day, Sylvain can’t be sure.

There’s a few books on the desk - two of them, Sylvain recognizes as popular Faerghus novels about knighthood, one looks like a battered textbook that’s been pilfered from the monastery library about foreign plants. There’s a small cutting of a plant Sylvain isn’t familiar with sitting in a vase half filled with water on the corner of the desk.

Ashe offers his chair to Sylvain, and after he sits, obligingly, he takes a seat on his bed - neat, clean and orderly.

For a moment, they sit in silence, Ashe folding his hands on his lap, and Sylvain sitting straight in the chair, unsure if he should lean back in it or not. The legs don’t feel even.

“...I don’t really know where to start,” Sylvain says eventually, when it’s clear Ashe isn’t going to speak first.

“Neither do I, in all honesty,” Ashe says uncertainly, “Um... what do you want to know?”

Sylvain stares at him. His gaze darts to the side, at the longbow, then back, “...Everything?” he asks with an apologetic wince.

“Sylvain,” Ashe responds with a frown.

‘Everything’ is the least helpful suggestion he could have given. He’ll concede that.

“Well, let’s... let’s start at the beginning,” Sylvain suggests, “That’s always a good place to start.”

“I guess,” Ashe responds reluctantly, and nods once.

“What... what happened in the Holy Tomb?” Sylvain asks. If they’re going to start at the beginning, Sylvain figures it’s best to start from there. It’s always been a mystery to everyone who wasn’t there as to what happened exactly within the depths of the monastery. Sylvain hadn’t been present when Annette gave her account to Dimitri and the other church officials in the leadup to the battle of Garreg Mach, and nobody demanded her to repeat it more than once.

“...After the imperial army attacked the Holy Tomb, we held them off and prevented them from taking the Crest Stones buried there...” Ashe responds, gaze darting aside as he remembers, “but then... Edelgard revealed herself to be the Flame Emperor.”

Sylvain frowns. He’d known - they’d all known Edelgard was the Flame Emperor, eventually. But he hadn’t known that was where she revealed it first. And even then, they’d joined her side? The Flame Emperor had been a menacing figure for most of the academy year prior to that point. For students who had spent most of the year opposing what the Flame Emperor had been doing, only to join her side after she revealed her true identity seems... suspect. Weird.

“I’m... not sure what happened, exactly,” Ashe continues, “It all happened so quickly, but when the Archbishop ordered the Professor to kill Emperor, er, uh, Edelgard,” he stumbles, unsure how best to address his fellow classmate now emperor, “The Professor refused. And then Lady Rhea she...” Ashe hesitates, biting his lip as he glances up at Sylvain.

Sylvain just stares at him. Why does he look so unsure?

Ashe takes a breath, “She turned into a giant dragon and... and screamed that she was going to kill us all for turning against her,” he says in a rush.

“She what,” Sylvain says dumbly.

“...She...” Ashe grits his teeth, “She transformed into-”

“Ashe,” Sylvain interrupts, leaning forward, “Are you sure-”

“I know what I saw, Sylvain,” Ashe cuts in firmly. His gaze meets Sylvain and it’s serious. Determined.

He’s not joking.

“Okay, but that’s...”

Ashe huffs impatiently, unwilling to argue and unwilling to recount it again, “... You can ask Felix, if you won’t believe me, I guess,” he says with a jerk of his shoulder, “He won’t say any different.”

He doesn’t seem like he’s lying. Not that Sylvain believes Ashe came into this conversation intending to lie to Sylvain about anything - he’s always been earnest and Sylvain doesn’t think that’s stopped being the case - but still... it sounds almost ludicrous.

The Archbishop? Lady Rhea? A giant dragon in disguise?

If she is one she’s never shown any indications of being one the whole time she’s been in Fhirdiad. She’s always been human, when Sylvain looked.

And yet...

Now that Ashe has said it, Sylvain can’t help but consider the idea. Back when they were all at the academy, the Archbishop has always seemed... ethereal, graceful, benevolent. After the war started, when Fhirdiad became her new place of residence and the new haven for her knights, she’d been... angry, for lack of a better word. It was like her entire personality had flipped, her fury was unmatched, the forgiveness burned out of her, leaving nothing but scorched earth and the desire for heavenly retribution. At times, her anger was so much, she’d looked incandescent, her eyes flashing, burning with the flames of Ailell. Sometimes they flashed so bright, Sylvain wasn’t sure there wasn’t something else there.

Maybe that was a sign of it. It sounds... ridiculous. But...

He should ask others as well, make sure Ashe wasn’t just seeing things.

“Anyways...” Ashe says, continuing when Sylvain doesn’t say anything to stop him, “Hubert warped us out and away from the monastery. To... I think the Imperial advance camp, and Edelgard told us everything about what she was doing, what her vision was, and that she was going to declare war on the Church. She allowed everyone who refused to fight on her behalf to leave. Flayn, of course, left, and so did Lysithea, Leonie... Annette...”

“But you, Felix and Mercedes,” Sylvain prompts.

“Yeah... and the Ashen Wolves...” Ashe adds with a nod, “We stayed. We each had our reasons, but we chose to stay. Nobody forced us to. It... it wasn’t an easy decision. But we did it.”

It’s somewhat comforting, to know nobody was forced to fight on behalf of the Empire - that it had been done of their own free will, and that Edelgard had given them the chance to go. But at the same time, it’s another kick in the chest, to know there had been an option for them to return home, and Felix, Ashe, Mercedes... none of them had taken it.

For whatever reasons, returning home to Faerghus wasn’t enough, compared to whatever it was the Empire offered them.

That stings, even now.

“After the battle at Garreg Mach, the Church fled the monastery, and the Empire took it over,” Ashe recounts, “Somewhere in the chaos, we lost sight of the Professor. We haven’t seen her since.”

“Huh.” Sylvain says, sitting up again in thought.

So Professor Byleth isn’t in the Empire. It had always been a possibility - a fearful one for the Church, for Faerghus, and maybe even for the Alliance. The archbishop’s personal vendetta against the Professor aside, from a tactical standpoint Byleth’s mind had been unparalleled in strategy, and her combat prowess unmatched, as far as anyone could tell. There’s no doubt she could greatly impact the outcome of certain battles of the war. Taking her out had been of the utmost importance, but nobody had known where she was and the worry was always that she was being hidden in the Empire, providing her guidance in secret.

It’s both reassuring and disconcerting to know she isn’t in the Empire either.

“When the war started in earnest, Edelgard offered all the Black Eagles positions of leadership in the Empire,” Ashe continues, “We’d committed to supporting her vision, so those of us willing to fight, we took them and we started fighting for her. Those of us who didn’t, well, they found things to do,” Ashe glances up, “You’ve seen Dorothea’s work, I presume. Mercedes was the same, but she... she wanted to follow her brother.”

“Her brother?” Sylvain asks.

He wasn’t aware Mercedes had a brother. They’d talked, in the cathedral sometimes, back at the academy - about her situation with her adoptive father, a little about her crest and its impact on her life, but Sylvain doesn’t remember her mentioning a brother.

Was this something he’d forgotten?

“Ah... I’m... not clear on the details, but...” Ashe fidgets, nervous suddenly, “I think her brother is the Death Knight. She, um... she went with him to Enbarr.”

Sylvain stares at him, eyes wide.

Mercedes’ brother is the _Death Knight_? The guy who kidnapped Flayn? Who stabbed Professor Manuela? The one who’d clashed with the Professor in battle, yammering on about fighting to the death? Who killed so many people and continues to do it at the Empire’s behest as one of its most terrifying generals?

Well if he’d known that, there’s no way he would have forgotten it.

“...Right,” Sylvain says, with a jerk of his head.

He has _so_ _many_ _questions_ , but it’s clear with Ashe’s hunched over position and nervous demeanor at the topic he’s not the person to ask.

Sylvain files that fact away for another day, and tries to think of something else to ask, “And you guys... adjusted okay?”

“Of course not,” Ashe says with a shaky huff, shaking his head, “It’s not... easy, Sylvain, to fight against one’s homeland. For the longest time,” he bites his lip, looking unhappy, anxious, “Fighting soldiers dressed in Kingdom blues, it... it felt like it did when I had to... to fight Gaspard militia during that... mission, at the academy.”

Sylvain can imagine it. Ashe had fought against his own people at that mission, during their academy year. Before the war, it wasn’t a possibility anyone should have had to have gone through. Ashe had done it and returned a shell of his former self - withdrawn, diminished, and rightfully upset at what had gone down.

It makes sense that it would feel familiar to Ashe, after he joined the Empire to fight against the Kingdom. A bigger scale of a similar situation.

“But,” Ashe continues determinedly, “It’s war. And Felix and Mercedes and I... we had each other. Until Mercedes left for Enbarr, and she’s still there, last I heard, but... we still write. We support each other as much as we can.”

Sylvain swallows, his mouth feeling dry. He doesn’t know what to say about that. He is glad, he supposes, that they had - that they have each other, to weather it.

“You get used to it, you know?” Ashe says, with a defeatist shrug of his shoulder, “You take lead, you give orders, you fight...” He pauses, then huffs, giving a self-deprecating smile, “It’s funny, you know,” he says, despite it not being funny at all, “All that academy training, working with the knights... It really did prepare us to fight against them too.”

Sylvain snorts. It does feel weirdly apt, that they’d done a year at the academy, and it prepared them so uniquely for the war that followed and prevented them from formally graduating the year.

“And they...” Sylvain asks, wetting his lips, “The imperials they... accepted you?”

“Yes,” Ashe says, with a nod and a sigh, “As far as they were concerned, if I was with them, then I wasn’t against them. I’m a commoner, after all,” he says, with a shrug, “So there wasn’t exactly any expectations for... which side I was supposed to be on.”

“Because you’re a commoner?” Sylvain echoes, then frowns, as a thought occurs to him, “Wait,” he interjects, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ashe worries at his lip, looking uncertain, meeting Sylvain’s gaze, then glancing away as if he’s not sure if he should tell Sylvain. Eventually he relents, under Sylvain’s inquiring gaze, folding under the tension of the room, “...The Empire didn’t trust Felix, at first.”

“They didn’t?” Sylvain asks, surprised, “But he...”

“We did, of course,” Ashe interjects, assuring, “All the Black Eagles, Edelgard, of course, and even Hubert. But...” Ashe trails off, uncertain.

“...but?” Sylvain asks, feeling an anxious coil form in his gut, a restlessness at the insinuation being said in the words Ashe hasn’t found the will yet to say.

“Felix is- was,” Ashe corrects himself, “A Kingdom noble. Not only that, he’s a Fraldarius.”

Sylvain stares him down, “....And that...”

“Sylvain,” Ashe huffs, frustrated that he has to spell it out, “You have to know the legendary tales of loyalty between Kyphon and Loog. Fraldarius and Blaiddyd.”

“Of course I do,” Sylvain responds, what man of Faerghus doesn’t? The backbone behind the King is the foundation of the Kingdom’s strength. But he doesn’t know what that has to do with Felix and the Empire.

Or rather, he doesn’t want to have to guess at it.

He doesn’t want to be right.

“Well, even in the far reaches of the Empire and the Alliance, people know the stories; the ties between the two houses are legendary. And... the old stories aside...” Ashe takes a steadying breath, “Duke Fraldarius... Felix’s father is the famous Shield of Faerghus - the devotion of his family to the crown is unparalleled!”

Sylvain blinks but doesn’t say anything. So far Ashe is just stating the obvious. He needs him to say what it means for Felix.

He needs to hear it in words.

“The idea that a Fraldarius could ever turn their back on their Blaiddyd king... during a _war_ , no less....” Ashe meets his gaze, his grey eyes wide, “It’s unthinkable, Sylvain.”

“But Felix did it,” Sylvain says simply.

Ashe looks down and nods, “...He did.”

It had to have been a weighty decision, for Felix. Turning on Faerghus wasn’t just an act of betrayal to his homeland, it was an act of defiance against the legacy of his house, a conscious turning of his back on every expectation that came with his name.

If anyone could do it and commit to that decision... it would be Felix.

Still, Sylvain had thought... that being in the Empire would have spared Felix much of the blowback of such a decision against the Kingdom

Ashe takes a breath, releases it, and continues, his voice low and serious, tone quiet to match, “Empire troops saw Felix and thought... ‘Well if a Fraldarius couldn’t even stay loyal to the King he was meant to serve... how could he be trusted with the Empire’s vision and our lives’?”

“That’s...” Sylvain’s fists clench, with the rising sweep of outrage on Felix’s behalf. He turned his back on his own homeland, his birthright, and the Empire couldn’t even grace him with the benefit of _trust_? “He turned his back on everything he knew for the Empire!”

“I _know_ , Sylvain,” Ashe responds, no less upset, “But everyone’s suspicious, in a war. It’s... it’s messy. For a while... no matter what Felix did, or accomplished... there was always talk that it was only a matter of time before he’d turn traitor again, or that he was spy, waiting for the right moment to prove his true allegiance to his King.” Ashe shakes his head, giving a frustrated huff, “Not to speak ill of Felix as well, but he didn’t really help matters by refusing a regular battalion. I know he’s uncomfortable leading, but...”

“It doesn’t look good,” Sylvain finishes for him, around the growing ball of upset making itself known in his chest.

“Yeah,” Ashe agrees, “You know... I... I can’t be sure... but I thought... part of the reason he never agreed to lead a battalion after he joined the Empire was because... because of all that talk.”

Sylvain brings his hands together, rubbing at his knuckles in agitation, “...Because he didn’t trust they’d...?”

The Empire wouldn't have been so craven would they? Even an Empire battalion could at least be trusted to watch his back if Felix led one... right?

“I don’t know, Sylvain,” Ashe says firmly, before Sylvain’s thoughts can get away from him, picturing possibilities and fears about Felix’s time in the Empire, surrounded by troops and soldiers who didn’t trust him, even in so volatile a setting as a battlefield, “But... We... tried to be there for him, but eventually, as the war went on, we went our separate ways. Not all of us were stationed at Garreg Mach, and there were so many battlefields that needed generals and soldiers...”

“That’s...” Sylvain swallows, fighting his distress down, “and he still fought...?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Ashe responds with a nod, meeting his gaze, “Have you ever known Felix to give less than his all? Even with all the scrutiny, he fought as hard as he could because what mattered wasn’t what people thought of him, but what he chose to accomplish.”

Sylvain sits back in his chair, thoughts swirling in a mess in his mind. He doesn’t know what to feel, having learned the difficulty of Felix’s situation after he joined the Imperial army. Is he upset on Felix’s behalf - knowing that after making a difficult decision, Felix didn’t get the support he deserved from the side that should thank him for his allegiance? Should he feel vindictive knowing that it wasn’t easy for Felix, and it shouldn’t have been, given his act of betrayal against his own home? Can he be proud of Felix, for pushing through that and giving it his all regardless, when he had every right to refuse to, if the troops he was expected to fight with couldn’t fully trust him in battle?

He doesn’t know.

“The scrutiny never really stopped until... official word released from the Kingdom that he’d been formally disowned,” Ashe says quietly, fussing with the hem of his tunic.

Sylvain looks up, escaping his thoughts, “...That wasn’t that long ago,” he realizes quietly.

Not even half a year, if that.

That means... for most of the war thus far, Felix has been facing the burden of scrutiny from his own side, on top of everything else.

“It’s not like...” Ashe exhales a frustrated breath, a steely anger setting in on his face, carving a deep furrow in his brow, “I don’t think the Kingdom... his father... had a specific nefarious purpose for holding back on that announcement for so long, but...”

Sylvain waits.

“It’s hard not to be angry about it, on Felix’s behalf.”

Sylvain swallows back the first defensive quip he wants to make, then stifles the next, trying to find words to explain without running the risk of angering Ashe further, “They didn’t...” he sighs, “We wouldn’t have known how it was affecting him. They just...”

Ashe looks up at him, eyes hard.

“I don’t think Duke Fraldarius was ready to let him go,” Sylvain explains with a shake of his head. The Duke had held onto every scrap of hope he had that Felix hadn’t willingly turned on his King. For as long as he could, at great personal cost. “Not until-”

“Not until he tried to kill him?” Ashe asks sharply.

Sylvain winces, “...I don’t think he wanted to do that either.”

Ashe gives a derisive sniff in reply, turning away to glare at the floor instead, but doesn’t elaborate further. Sylvain had known Felix had been injured by his father - Rodrigue had reported it as such, when he’d returned from that final confrontation between them - but he’d never known the extent.

He’s tempted to ask Ashe, but given how angry he looks, it’s probably better not to broach the topic, at least not today.

For a moment, Sylvain lets the other man stew in his anger. Ashe seethes quietly, for a time, finding nothing to say in the silence, and Sylvain takes the time to just study the other man. As a student, Ashe had always been open - wide eyed, eager, passionate, and earnest to a fault. Now, Sylvain is seeing a muted version of that, tempered by time, experience, hardship. He picks his words more carefully, less likely to blurt something out thoughtlessly. The air of idealization he’d always carried around as a student seems to have disappeared now. Sylvain can’t help but feel a little sad, knowing it’s gone. That’s not something that has a tendency to come back.

“Ashe...” he ventures, cautiously, “Why... did you join the empire?”

Ashe meets his gaze. His anger is dimming with the change in topic, but in its place, something like apprehension is setting in.

“You were...” Sylvain catches himself, half in remembrance, then pushes forward, “You used to talk so much about wanting to be a knight and... you loved tales of chivalry and all that stuff. Joining the Empire... doesn’t that make that dream impossible?”

Ashe's gaze flits towards his desk, where some of his favourite books of Faerghus tales of chivalry still lie, "Maybe it does," he concedes before his gaze flits down to the floor instead, “Anyway, stories are stories, Sylvain. They’re good stories, and... I used to believe in them, but now I don’t know how much of those stories are true after all. The real world...” he takes a breath, releases it in a rush, “It’s different. As stories, they can still give hope, I believe that. But as for chivalry in the real world... well.”

For a moment, Ashe stares at the floor, wringing his hands together, biting his lip as he considers his next words.

Sylvain watches him carefully, and waits.

Eventually, Ashe straightens his back and looks him in the eye, “The Church destroyed my family, Sylvain,” he declares somberly, “They killed Christophe, my adopted brother, without trying to find out the truth. Then the Western Church manipulated Lord Lonato into raising arms against the Central Church, who then killed him. The Knights of Seiros watched it happen. Worse: they actively participated in their deaths. They’re chivalrous aren’t they, Sylvain? It’s an honour to be a Knight of Seiros.” he scoffs, turning his head aside, “What an honour,” he says lowly, weighed down by quiet anger, “To blindly follow the orders of the Archbishop without question. I don’t think they ever wanted to find out the real truth behind everything. So much for the pursuit of truth and justice.”

There’s nothing Sylvain can really say to that. He remembers what happened - the mission the Black Eagles were assigned to Gaspard territory to stop Lord Lonato’s uprising had been a sore point for the Blue Lions. Dimitri had been upset to know the Church was putting Kingdom affairs in the hands of the Adrestian class, and his turmoil had been shared by the rest of his house. Everyone knew how much Ashe had looked up to Lord Lonato. The inevitable aftermath had not been kind, but once it had been dealt with, they’d let the incident pass. Sylvain’s a little shamed now, that he hadn’t put more thought into what happened after it had been resolved.

Ashe certainly had been dwelling on it for a very long time.

“You know,” Ashe continues, with a self-deprecating laugh, “I... I begged the professor to bring me with them to Gaspard that month at the academy, so I could... try to talk Lord Lonato down from what he was doing.”

Sylvain nods. The classes were small. Ashe conspicuously joining the Black Eagles to assist on a mission involving his adoptive father wasn’t something that could really be overlooked by his classmates.

“She agreed, and I joined her class that month... but...” Ashe takes a shaky breath and grits his teeth as he remembers, “The Church had no intentions of letting him surrender,” he says lowly, “Professor Byleth was willing to give Lord Lonato that chance, but the Church and the knights... To just slaughter Gaspard people and Lord Lonato because they questioned the Church and the Archbishop...” he shakes his head, giving a harsh sniff, his eyes a little watery, “In the end, it didn’t even matter to them. Lord Lonato turned on the Church, so the Church decided he had to die. He was an example.

“I vowed to find out the truth for myself. Why the Church blamed Christophe for a crime they never proved he did, why Lord Lonato took up arms, and why the Church had him killed for it. I knew I’d never find those answers by cooperating with the Church.”

That makes sense. Given what happened, the Church had really let Ashe down on all counts. Sylvain doesn’t know what he would do, if he were in the same position. From what he’s seen of Lady Rhea in the past few years, she’s never had much interest in investigating something beyond her own belief of what was true. Investigating something she considered done with would be an act of futility. If Ashe wanted answers, he’d likely never find them under her command of the Church.

“When Edelgard declared war on the Church, I knew I could never fight on the Church’s side,” Ashe continues, jaw set, “I needed to find answers, and this side would give me the opportunity. When the Kingdom fell in line with them...” Ashe gives a regretful little sigh, but soldiers on, “I knew my decision was sound. I moved what’s left of my family out of the Kingdom into the Empire, and I’ve never looked back.”

Sylvain cracks a knuckle, rubs at it to smooth it out as he considers what Ashe has said, “You said... Last time we talked, you said you and Caspar were in Gaspard territory, the last few months.”

“Yes,” Ashe confirms, “Edelgard wanted to stamp out all church influence, and that meant the Western Church as well, even though the Central Church also wanted them eliminated. She gave me the chance to go and permission and find answers personally, while we were there.”

“...And... did you?” Sylvain asks gently, “Find answers, I mean.”

“I did.”

“...That’s... good, Ashe,” Sylvain replies, earnestly. He means it. Ashe’s defection to the Empire hasn’t been as sore a subject as Felix’s defection was to him, but it had hurt and rankled all the same. Having heard him explain it now, Sylvain is glad to have that understanding at last, about why, and to know Ashe could find some form of closure from the tragedy the Church had inflicted on his family. It’s comforting enough, despite Sylvain’s own conflicted thoughts on the matter, “I’m... I’m glad you found the answers you’re looking for.”

Ashe meets his gaze and gives a nod, then looks past him, over his shoulder, to plant his steely gaze at the wall, “I’ll never forgive the Church, Sylvain,” he says gravely, “Maybe joining the Empire meant I was giving up a dream, but I made the right choice.”

“...Yeah,” Sylvain responds quietly, “I understand that.” He sits up straight, tipping his head to Ashe, “Thank you for telling me.”

Ashe meets his gaze again, sitting straight as well, folding his hands on his lap again, “I know you want to ask what Felix’s reasons were,” he says, “But that’s not for me to tell.”

Sylvain swallows back his question, and nods. What Ashe has shared about his own experiences has been highly personal. Sylvain doesn’t doubt that Felix’s account would be similar in weight.

It wouldn’t be fair to Felix or Ashe, for Sylvain to ask here and now. Ashe has told him a generous amount of information. He ought to take the time to reflect on it.

Ashe sighs, “I just hope that... whatever Felix’s reasons are...”

Sylvain meets his gaze.

Ashe’s eyes look solemn now, a little plaintive. Whatever he says next, he’s hoping Sylvain will listen carefully.

So he does.

“I hope you’ll respect them too.”

Sylvain clasps his hands together on his lap, looks him in the eye as seriously as he is able, and nods.

He doesn’t intend to do anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i am Exhausted. rotations are kicking my ass. anyways, here's another two parter, mostly because it's too long!! it's! too! long! im not done part 2 of this? part? but i figured i should post this for now, given i'm now writing on the fly so this will be messier than the previous chapters have been but as long as i'm posting i'll call it a win.
> 
> thanks for your patience everyone 😭


	12. Scars of All Kinds (pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sylvain gets in a fight. luckily somebody returns before he can get too upset about it.

Sylvain spends the next few days trying to keep himself busy. After speaking with Ferdinand and Ashe, it feels counterproductive to sit around doing nothing. He wants to be in a good headspace when Felix comes back, to prove he’s ready to talk. He can’t do that if all he does is wait around and wallow, counting the seconds until Felix finishes what he’s doing and makes it back.

With Ferdinand making good on his offer to help retrieve books for him so he can at least keep himself occupied, Sylvain finds himself spending a lot of time reading. He gets through volume 7 of _The Essentials of Black Magic_ , before he doubles back, asking the poor courier Ferdinand’s sent to him for the purpose of book delivery to grab the whole collection in its entirety so he can re-read parts of the other volumes. Sylvain goes over key chapters from the top down, trying harder not to read for the sake of reading, but to actually understand what he’s reading about.

There’s just something about Reason and the foundational theory behind it that makes sense, explaining the art of Black Magic in digestible chunks. It comes easy to him, somehow. It has clear rules, defined laws. and the principles are immutable. A spell is an organized structure built of parts. The runes convert your energy. The directing lines guide your hand. The mapping circles hold it all together. Everything else - convergence angles, amplification matrices, power differentials - is just variations on the formula. So long as you understand each part of the array, the spell basically forms itself. So it seems. He hasn’t mustered the courage to actually try it, sticking to written formulas.

Still, it’s nice to have something that just makes perfect sense without too much ambiguity to muddy how he feels about it all in his life.

Sylvain takes to reading outside. The Harpstring Moon falls right in the heart of spring, and the warming weather makes sitting outside with a tome a pleasant way to pass the time. It’s calming, pleasant, to find a seat in one of the monastery’s many courtyards and pore over the text, a glass of water and maybe a plate of baked treats he snuck out of the dining hall to keep him company.

At times, it feels like he’s a student again, cramming his readings to prepare for an upcoming quiz. He tries not to dwell on that thought. It makes him feel weirdly guilty that he’d never really listened to Professor Hanneman when he tried to encourage the Blue Lions to give Reason a decent shot, back when he was a student. The man just never made it seem interesting.

When he’s not reading outside, Sylvain is at the stables, tending to his horse and making sure she’s not getting too fat on treats, or wandering the monastery enjoying the spring air. He doesn’t go out of his way to seek out people he knows - wary of taking time away from old Black Eagle classmates who are running about with their own arduous lists of responsibilities as generals in the stronghold - but they greet him nonetheless, pulling him into conversation if they’re free, as if he’s lonely and hurting for company.

Sylvain isn’t hurting for company, but it’s nice, he admits, to have people around asking if he would like it.

Caspar, and by extension Ashe and Linhardt, are particularly inviting, asking if Sylvain’s getting bored of Garreg Mach yet, pulling him into conversation about any and everything that comes to mind. The warrior’s energy is contagious, though at times tiring, and Sylvain has to turn him down multiple times when he offers to spar. The one time he accepts, he manages to use the reach of his weapon to pin Caspar against a column, only for the other man to snap the shaft of the training lance in his bare hands before he tackles Sylvain onto the floor and pins him.

“Whoops!” Caspar had laughed afterwards, yanking him back up to his feet like he hadn’t just nearly dislocated Sylvain’s shoulder, “Sorry about that!” he’s exclaimed, “Forgot you were using wood.”

“Right,” Sylvain had responded, “Of course,” like it’s normal for Caspar to routinely attempt to counter steel lances in battle by literally bending the metal shafts, and so had snapped the flimsy wooden one in Sylvain’s hands like it was a stick of kindling. He’d rather never have to go through that again.

Ashe is polite and still wary, but warm, frequently asking if Sylvain is doing all right, engaging him in conversation, talking to him during meals. They don’t talk about Felix again, but Sylvain finds he doesn’t mind. It’s nice to talk to Ashe again. They’d had trouble getting on during the academy, but now they’re older, they’re different. It’s not so hard after all.

Sylvain tries not to talk much to Linhardt.

He even encounters Bernadetta once, catching her in the stables patting Belle as he walks in, and that’s how he finds out she’s the one who’s been assigned to exercise her, keeping her fit and well cared for.

“Thank you,” he tells her, after she’s stammered her frantic explanation for why she’s touching his horse and before she can dart away again to disappear into the monastery depths as she tends to.

She jumps at his gratitude, squeaking, “Of course! She’s... she’s a lovely horse!” before she flushes red from head to toe, cringing and making to leave, “I... I guess if that’s all!”

Sylvain doesn’t know what else to say to her otherwise, but she’s gone before he can open his mouth to speak.

It’s an altogether odd experience. Sylvain absently wonders how she’s doing in the war. He wonders if she fights at all, or if she’s just here, another refugee hiding out in the monastery, under Ferdinand’s care.

Day by day, hour by hour, Sylvain settles into life at Garreg Mach.

Even without Felix there, he’s starting to feel more comfortable. When Ferdinand invites him to afternoon tea again, this time offering a fresh brew of bergamot, he starts to wonder if maybe he can find a way to fit in after all.

**~o.O.o~**

On the fourth day of Felix’s absence, late in the afternoon, Sylvain finally manages to track Dorothea down.

She’s sequestered herself in a corner of the courtyard by the fishing pond, poring over several tarps covered in supplies: rations of dried meats and fruits portioned into servings, a pile of what looks like blankets, miscellaneous fabrics, and small packages of miscellaneous things. To the side, it looks like she’s rolled up one of each of the supplies she’s gathered into a neat little package, probably to distribute. Knowing what she’s working on primarily at the monastery, Sylvain can wager a guess for whom.

“Dorothea,” he calls as he approaches, walking slowly to give her plenty of time to decide how to respond.

She wasn’t the only one he had been short with, that night, but she’d taken it the most personally, besides Felix himself, who bore the brunt of Sylvain’s ire at the fishing pond before he took off the following day without a word.

He’s put this off for long enough.

“Oh, it’s you,” she responds, with just a glance at him from the corner of her eye before she turns back to her collection of supplies, crouching down to bundle them together, one from each, folding them into the blanket, rolling it up, and holding it all together with a length of twine. She looks intent to ignore him otherwise.

“Yeah,” Sylvain sighs, standing awkwardly behind her, “I guess I deserve that.”

For a moment he just watches her work, moving from a crouch to a marginally more comfortable kneel, tying off bundles of supplies with her twine. “Well, Sylvain?” she says eventually, when the silence stretches on too long, Sylvain waiting, uncertain when and if he should speak.

He gathers himself with a deep breath, then exhales. “Dorothea,” he says, determinedly, “I’m sorry.”

She stops working, just a moment, turning to face him, folding her hands in her lap.

“I was frustrated that night,” Sylvain says, from where he stands, “And I took it out on you.”

“Not just on me,” she mutters, her green eyes looking away briefly, to the pond.

“...Right,” Sylvain agrees, “I guess not.”

She sighs, “I have a feeling I’m not the one you really want to apologize to.”

Sylvain winces. He supposes it’s obvious.

“It... I was still rude to you,” Sylvain says, stepping forward and crouching down, so he’s not looming over her kneeling form, “So I’m sorry. I just want you to know.”

Dorothea studies him, her mouth a flat line, green eyes assessing, “Hm.”

“Look,” Sylvain says, raising his hands in an appeasing motion, even as his heart sinks at her reluctance to forgive. Of all his old Adrestian Black Eagle classmates, he likes Dorothea probably he most. He doesn’t want to continue being at odds with her. “You don’t have to forgive me. Goddess knows you wouldn’t be the first not to, but... listen, is there anything I can do to help you forgive me?"

She keeps her eyes on him a little longer, letting the silence stretch out long enough that Sylvain starts to feel his knees complain at him for being crouched down for so long. “Sylvain,” she says eventually, shoulders slumping, unable or unwilling to continue holding her stiff position, “I know you’re... frustrated. I know how hard it is to... have to consider people you once knew as your enemy and fight against them, but I can’t say I know what it’s like to be in your position, having been on one side of the war, only to find you’re now in the company of the other.”

Sylvain chews on his lip, “...Yeah it’s...” he bends his head, raising a hand to ruffle his hair, “It’s not been easy,” he breathes.

“I can tell,” Dorothea responds, knowingly, “Regardless... you’re here now, and as Ferdie says, there’s no going back.” She stares him down when he looks up again to meet her eyes, “You made your choices, Sylvain,” she reminds him, “I know we were enemies, but... now that you’re here, maybe don’t take it out on all of us. We’re not bad people.”

“...I’m... starting to see that,” Sylvain says, shifting his weight.

“Only starting?” Dorothea asks, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“No, I... I know you’re not...” Sylvain trails off, chastised.

She shakes her head, “I’m teasing, Sylvain,” she says, her tone amused. For the first time since they started talking, a smile has returned to her face.

Something like relief settles into Sylvain’s heart.

“If you really want me to forgive you...” Dorothea chimes in, looking meaningfully at her arrangement of tarps and supplies, “You could start by helping me put these packages together. My supply caravan to the villages nearby sets out tomorrow. It wouldn’t do if my packages weren’t ready.”

It’s a suggestion, but Sylvain knows he doesn’t really have a choice if he wants to get back on truly good footing with the songstress. “Sure,” he agrees easily, “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

Dorothea makes room for him, and shows him what she wants in each care package, how she arranges it so it folds together neatly, what she does to hold it all together so the twine doesn’t slip and looks halfway presentable besides.

At first, they work in silence side by side, but as time passes, Dorothea does less and less, relegating herself to cutting lengths of twine, standing to the side and ordering Sylvain around as he kneels on the tarp and painstakingly puts things together to her specifications.

He can’t really find it in himself to be truly annoyed about it.

Once he gets into the flow of it, they start to talk, neither of them particularly fond of silence. Dorothea asks him how he’s been doing the last few days and Sylvain answers, before asking his own questions about her wellbeing as well.

Eventually, as Sylvain works through the bulk of the pile, the conversation turns, inevitably perhaps, to Felix. Dorothea doesn’t direct the conversation topic away, like Ashe tends to do, nor does she tell Sylvain she doesn’t have anything to add, as Ferdinand claims to avoid saying too much.

Sylvain knows she’s curious, as is her nature as a gossip, but he can’t deny it’s good to air his frustrations and have someone just listen.

“I just...” he says, as he fumbles a series of folds of the fabric and has to redo it, “I thought we’d talk about it, but he never asked. Then we fought and... I realized I didn’t know what his life was like before I got here at all."

“...You two never discussed it?” Dorothea asks in mild surprise, counting the lengths of twine she’s dropped by his side with her foot, “The two of you have been attached at the hip the moment you were released.”

“No, we never did!” Sylvain complains, nudging her foot aside to grab a length of twine, “Felix... You know him, he closes up. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he never will. I just... thought he didn’t care.”

Dorothea doesn’t say anything, but it feels judgmental all the same. Sylvain frowns at the package in his hands as he knots it together. He can admit it sort of sounds stupid when he says that. It doesn’t take much time in Felix’s company to suspect he cares enough, then pretends he doesn’t.

“Ashe told me... that imperial troops didn’t trust him,” Sylvain says, quietly, pausing before he reaches to assemble the next package, “Felix gave up everything to be here and... It just...” he sighs, quietly upset again, as he is every time he remembers it, “It had to have been hard, but he didn’t mention it at all.”

“...He probably felt like he’s moved past it,” Dorothea says gently, nudging him with her foot, “You know he doesn’t dwell.”

“He tries not to,” Sylvain huffs, “Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t keep bothering him.”

Dorothea hums absently in response. Maybe it’s agreement. Or maybe it’s just a prompt for Sylvain to keep talking.

“I just wish he shared more with me, so I wouldn’t have acted like a complete asshole to him when we fought,” Sylvain confesses, looking down, “What I said hurt him, Dorothea, but how am I supposed to know how wrong my words will be if he never tells me anything about it?” he looks up at her, gesturing plaintively.

“I don’t know, Sylvain,” Dorothea responds gently, “Felix barely shares anything with me. You’d have better luck asking the others.”

“I talked to Ashe already,” Sylvain sighs, reaching to start putting together another package, “And Ferdinand. Caspar told me a lot about Felix’s sparring skill, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I learned a little, but it still doesn’t feel like I know enough.”

With how reticent Felix can be, even with his closest friends, about his feelings and his doubts, Sylvain’s not sure anyone stationed at Garreg Mach could give any enlightening information on Felix’s feelings about his life as an Imperial general prior to this point. He might have to brave the question with Felix himself and walk blind into his apology. He could do it, but he’d have to be far more careful with his words than he’s been.

“You should speak with Yuri,” Dorothea says while toying with the end of her ball of twine, pulling him out from his thoughts.

Sylvain makes a face, “Why?” he asks.

“Well,” Dorothea says with a hum, “You said you wanted to know more about Felix’s life here since the war began. Yuri would know more than most people.”

Sylvain snorts disbelievingly, “Because they’re a gossip like you?”

“No, Sylvain,” Dorothea responds with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “Because Felix and Yuri are friends.”

Sylvain tosses the supply roll he’s finished tying together onto the pile before he straightens up, giving Dorothea a questioning look.

Friends? He’s only seen Felix and Yuri spar with each other once, and while their interactions were familiar, Sylvain isn’t sure it means they’re friends. At least not any more than Felix is friends with Caspar, and Caspar definitely couldn’t tell him more than he could already extrapolate about Felix’s life during the war.

“They’re quite close, actually,” Dorothea continues, unspooling the twine to cut another length free for Sylvain to tie off the next package, “Since the war began... they’ve spent a lot of time together. Not a lot of us would spend much time in Abyss, besides Linhardt when he’s in the throes of his research. Felix spent _nights_ down there; frequently enough Ferdie used to worry,” she huffs, “Well Felix _used_ to spend nights in Abyss, until you arrived.”

Sylvain crouches down and yanks on the tie he’s making a littler harsher than he means to, feeling something give inside the rolled-up package as a result. Nights? What’s that supposed to mean? The meaning seems obvious to him, but would it mean _that_ for Felix? There’s a burn of ire in his chest, rumbling like a storm.

In all honesty, he doesn’t really know what to make of Yuri. He’s barely interacted with them the whole time he’s been here at Garreg Mach. Wherever they disappear to when they’re at the monastery, it’s never been anywhere Sylvain’s allowed to be. He’s had just the one time, watching them spar with Felix in a dance that’s just a touch too familiar - enough for Sylvain to feel like a third wheel as he watched them, their swords clashing in a graceful exchange of blows. It was uncomfortable.

At the time, he figured he was just irritable and Yuri was just in the wrong place at the wrong time for Sylvain. He’d barely seen them otherwise, so he was pretty sure they weren’t any closer to Felix than any of other of Felix’s Black Eagle classmates.

But if what Dorothea is saying is true... maybe he should re-examine what he remembers. He’s never felt like a third wheel in Felix’s company before. Not since the earliest months of his friendship with him, before Felix really knew him, many years ago now.

Maybe there’s another reason for that, he’s realizing.

“Close, huh,” he mutters, undoing the tie and knotting it again, this time less harshly to hold the supply pack together, not strangle it and break the rations inside that Dorothea intends to distribute to the less fortunate.

There’s a churn in his gut. Jealousy, perhaps? That Felix might have been on his way to making a new friend to replace the void Sylvain used to fill? That might be it, but it still somehow doesn’t feel right. It’s something else.

“If you want to know more about what Felix’s life has been like these past two years - aside from asking Felix himself - Yuri would know.”

Sylvain rolls the last pack towards the pile, and crosses his arms over his knees where he’s crouching.

He doesn’t really relish seeking Yuri out to speak - something about the trickster makes it feel like he’d have to pay a cost to get a straight answer.

Knowing that such a wily individual has gotten so close to Felix in the years Sylvain has been separated from him, and for Dorothea to so simply say that Felix has spent nights in their domain, whatever that means...

It’s not a good feeling.

But if he wants to get a better idea about Felix’s experiences with the war before Felix gets back... If he wants to better understand Felix’s point of view so he can be more prepared in their inevitable conversation, the smart thing to do would be to seek Yuri out to ask.

“Where is Abyss anyway?” Sylvain asks, pushing himself up to stand, “I know it’s the Garreg Mach underground, but how do I get there?”

Dorothea chews on her lip, “...I don’t... think it’s a good idea to seek it out without permission.”

Sylvain scowls. So it’s dangerous then. And Felix has just been hanging out there? Frequently? The weight in his gut gets heavier. “Where can I find Yuri?”

“Don’t worry about finding them,” Dorothea says, striding forth and starting a mental count of all the packages Sylvain has put together, “If you really want to talk to them, they’ll find you.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes.

She rolls her own in response, ignoring, or ignorant of, Sylvain’s ire, “I’ll talk to them, Sylvain. I’ll tell them you want to speak with them.”

“Fine,” Sylvain grouses, looking down at the fruits of his labour, the neat pile of ration packages Dorothea’s had him assemble to distribute to those seeking refuge in the shadow of the monastery, “Anything else you want me to do?”

“Well, if you’re not busy,” Dorothea says, knowing full well he has nothing better to do, “You can help me load these on the wagon.”

**~o.O.o~**

The following day - the fifth, now, of Felix’s absence - Sylvain all but stumbles upon Yuri, seated conspicuously at his usual outdoor reading table, legs crossed, flipping through a small book - a journal maybe, or a novella.

It’s late in the afternoon, the sun dipping low enough for the sky to begin turning orange at the horizon. Sylvain intended to get some light reading done prior to heading to the dining hall, hoping some self-study would work up an appetite. He’d been apprehensive, uncertain of when to expect Yuri, unsure if he ought to expect them to approach him at all.

Dorothea had left early in the morning with her wagon of supplies and a small escort of Imperial soldiers, heading down the mountain slope beyond the monastery town to the villages at the base of the plateau which have slowly been filling with more and more people as the war waged on. He hadn’t been sure she’d had the time to find the leader of Garreg Mach’s Ashen Wolves, much less inform them Sylvain wanted to speak.

It seems she’d come through before she left.

“Gautier,” Yuri greets, flipping a page, glancing up briefly before their attention is brought deliberately back down to their book, feigning disinterest when Sylvain stops his approach, standing before them with his heavy textbook on Reason under his arm.

Sylvain fights back the spike of annoyance at the deliberate act of disinterest, like Sylvain isn’t worth their time. He knows Yuri is a busy person, seeing how infrequently they appear above ground. Whatever Abyss is, exactly, listening to Ferdinand and others talk around it tells Sylvain more than enough about what a handful overseeing the underground is. Still, the least Yuri could do is pretend to be polite. Sylvain doesn’t need more reason to dislike them. He’s having a hard-enough time sorting through the ugly mesh of suspicion and upset Yuri’s presence brings up as it is.

“...Yuri,” Sylvain responds cautiously. He can be civil. He barely knows them, he reminds himself. It feels weird, not knowing exactly how close the trickster is to Felix, but the least he can do is push aside his irrational upset about that. Jumping to conclusions is just going to make something as simple as a conversation difficult.

Yuri smirks, looking up, tipping their book aside with a flex of their wrist, “Don’t remember my last name, huh?” they ask, teasing.

“Does it matter?” Sylvain asks, filtering out as much of his annoyance as he can from his voice at being made fun of. “It’s probably not even your real name.”

“Sharp,” Yuri says, sounding almost impressed at Sylvain’s suspicion. They tip their head, snapping their book shut and stowing it away as they stand, “A songbird told me you were looking for me.”

“...Maybe,” Sylvain mutters, hefting his own book as Yuri drags the chair they were in back under the table with their foot.

“So,” Yuri says, striding up to him, arms folding elegantly across their chest, “Looking for answers?”

“Yeah I...” Sylvain takes a deep breath. It’s just a conversation, he reminds himself, he doesn’t need to brace himself for a fight, as much as his brain screams at him to keep his guard up, “I want to know... what Felix’s life has been like here,” he says quietly.

“Here,” Yuri repeats, as if asking for clarification.

Sylvain fights back another flare of annoyance. Yuri is being deliberately obtuse. It’s really uncalled for, “Yeah, here,” Sylvain says impatiently, “In Garreg Mach. On the Empire side.”

Yuri hums, striding past him in slow easy steps, “You could ask Felix,” they say nonchalantly, like it’s an option Sylvain has.

“He’s not here,” Sylvain grits out, as he turns to keep his eye on them.

“No, I guess he’s not, is he?” Yuri murmurs, coming to a stop, their back to Sylvain, looking over the gate past the hedge walling them in the greenery of the courtyard.

It’s worded like a question, but sounds like an accusation. In it lies the expectation that Sylvain can come to his own conclusion; that it’s his fault Felix isn’t here to be asked the questions.

Sylvain knows. He’s been acutely aware of it since Ferdinand told him Felix left the monastery.

“How about a wager?” Yuri says suddenly, turning on their heel to look Sylvain in the eye, a mischievous curve to their lip.

“...What,” Sylvain says. He just wanted to talk. It’s not like he didn’t wholly expect Yuri to ask something in return, but he really doesn’t want to play games with them.

“Spar with me,” Yuri orders, “If you win, I’ll tell you what you want.”

“Yeah okay, you’re definitely friends with Felix,” Sylvain grumbles, shaking his head, “Any way we could do this without swinging wooden weapons at each other? I’m not a fan of being smacked around for fun.”

“Why,” Yuri leers, looking smug, “Are you scared?”

Sylvain barks out a laugh, “Yes, actually. I’ve _seen_ you spar with Felix.”

Felix is fearsome enough when he’s unleashed in the training grounds. From what little Sylvain bore witness to, Yuri is even faster than him; more dexterous and nimbler to make up the difference in strength. Sylvain knows first hand how much it takes to keep up with Felix in the ring. Yuri somehow managed to make matching him look, in some ways, easy.

If that’s not scary, Sylvain doesn’t know what is.

“Aw, that’s flattering,” Yuri titters, teasing and altogether infuriating, “But you don’t really have anything else to offer me. Take it or leave it.”

Sylvain takes a long and deep steadying breath, bringing the tome in his arms up to cross his arms around it.

“Come on,” Yuri goads, “I told you before I want to measure myself up against a lance user. You’ve got nothing better to do, and you’re looking for answers you haven’t yet found. It’s a win-win.”

As far as Sylvain can see, it’s a win-win for Yuri only. He’s looking at a lose-lose right in the face, and he’d be stupid to try. “Actually, you know what, who’s to say you have anything new to tell me anyway?” he asks, “I mean, Ashe knows Felix just as well. I think I’ll just ask him again, so... no thanks.” Sylvain hefts the book under an arm again, and turns to leave. Maybe he’ll just read in his room.

He doesn’t really need to know, anyway. Felix can tell him when he comes back. He doesn’t need to know more information to say he’s sorry.

“Ashe doesn’t know everything,” Yuri calls, as he makes to walk past them to the gate, “There are things Felix is much less willing to share if he feels like it’ll concern his friends.” They tilt their head, giving Sylvain a look that’s all too knowing, “When Felix wants to avoid scrutiny, he comes to me.”

“...What’s that supposed to mean?” Sylvain asks lowly. He doesn’t know what to think. Should he be curious, demand to know more? Or upset that Yuri does know; that Felix has spoken with them about things he’s reluctant to share with his friends at large, and yet Yuri would just offer to tell Sylvain anyway, like they have a right to bare Felix’s secrets.

He should be curious. This is information he wants to know: things he’s been pondering since Felix accused him of knowing nothing.

But all he is, is annoyed; a simmering anger starting to make itself known.

How _dare_ they. Felix trusts them with his secrets, and Yuri would just _offer_ them?

Sylvain bares his teeth.

Yuri smirks in response. They know they’ve got Sylvain’s attention now, “Join me in the training grounds and find out.”

“Fine,” Sylvain snarls, “You want a fight, Leclerc?” he asks, striding up to the trickster, leaning close to loom over their smaller, slighter frame, “I’ll give you one.”

Yuri wants to fight an experienced lance fighter? Fine. Maybe this _is_ a win-win. Maybe this is a chance for Sylvain to put them in their place, remind them what discretion really means.

Show them who’s really Felix’s friend here.

“Great,” Yuri responds. If they’re intimidated at all by Sylvain’s anger, they don’t show it, dodging around him to saunter to the gate out of the courtyard, turned in the direction of the training grounds, “Move those legs, Gautier,” they order, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

**~o.O.o~**

Yuri moves swiftly. They stride at a pace that even Sylvain’s longer legs can’t easily keep up with, and don’t even hold the door open for Sylvain when they disappear into the depths of the training grounds.

By the time Sylvain makes his way in, sets his textbook aside on one of the benches to the side, and finds his way to the rack of practice lances, Yuri has already set their steel blade aside and has a training sword in hand, moving absently through sword forms, watching Sylvain as they step in unfamiliar patterns.

Sylvain eyes them as he peruses the lances. Yuri moves lightly, steps quick. Even with half-hearted steps, idle motions as they wait for Sylvain, he can tell they’re nimble, would prefer to dodge, rather than parry. They don’t carry a shield; the way they hold themselves shows they never have. Sylvain’s tempted by the dulled iron practice lance, but opts for lighter wooden practice arms instead. His raw strength won’t mean anything if he can’t hit his target. He can’t give Yuri ample opportunities to hit him twice for each of his own swings.

There’s a strange ornament on Yuri’s left hand. Sylvain frowns at it as he narrows his choices down to two of the practice lances on the rack. It’s intricate, spanning the entire back of Yuri’s hand, secured with a thick wrist strap and an arrangement of rings encircling each of their fingers. There’s a red jewel inlaid in the center of it. It looks like a heroes’ relic but that can’t be right because Sylvain knows each one; had to be aware of each house with a weapon to match his own and remember each house with a crest in the land to know his allies, determine who might be a future threat.

Whatever it is, it’s gaudy. But if Yuri is wearing it into the spar, there must be something it’s capable of that Sylvain isn’t aware of. Maybe it’s a more robust evasion ring or something like that, charmed to protect the wearer, augment their speed, their skills.

“Are you coming or what?” Yuri calls, done with warmup, “I don’t have all day.”

Sylvain snatches the longer of the two lances he’s been waffling between, and turns to face them, lance falling into ready position “Hold your-”

Yuri lunges without warning. Sylvain only manages to bring the lance up to defend in a practiced movement because of his years of experience sparring with Felix, who frequently does the same as soon as his opponent has a weapon in hand.

It figures that Yuri’s exactly the same kind of duelist.

Sylvain uses his strength to shove the trickster back, but Yuri doesn’t give him any space. Darting away and back in with hardly a pause, they start in on a flurry of blows, sharp, quick jabs, and Sylvain, on the defensive, has no choice but to back up one step, two, again and again, warding off the wooden blade with the shaft of his lance until his back hits one of the columns bracketing the pit and Yuri’s blunted weapon presses up against the side of his throat.

“Point,” they say, leaning in with a raised brow, before they dart back, returning to the center, sword raised lazily, inviting Sylvain for round two.

Sylvain fumes, shoves off of the column, and stalks forward to meet them.

He tries. Oh Goddess, does he _try_. Sylvain is no stranger to fighting swordsmen. Lances are the preferred arm in all reaches of Faerghus, but there is no shortage of swordsmen, not when the great hero Kyphon is still so revered, known for his shining sword. Sylvain grew up alongside Felix, he _knows_ how best to use the advantage of the lance’s reach to give even the best swordsman he knows a hard time.

But even that isn’t enough.

Yuri is _fast_. Sylvain can tell their blows lack the sheer power Felix is capable of, but in a spar like this, strength doesn’t matter. What matters is that the trickster is getting their strikes in, and Sylvain just can’t land a blow. They dart in, out, around like a dragonfly in its prime, their wooden blade moving in unpredictable arcs, smacking against the meat of his shoulder, the back of his knee, and once, in a humiliating strike, against his buttock where it meets his thigh.

Sylvain’s unarmoured, he’s moving as fast as he can, nothing is weighing him down, not even the lance, which he’s chosen for its lighter weight, longer reach. It swings through the air, jabs fruitlessly, clear of any part of the other’s body, and when he’s on target, Yuri parries the blow just enough to redirect his attack before delivering a ruthless counter.

Frustrating doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“I’m getting the sense... you don’t like me,” Sylvain pants, in the middle of their fifth round. His determination, his spite, could only carry him so far. He’s come close, but close isn’t a win. He’s sore all over, Yuri’s been tapping him with the blade relentlessly between death-dealing moves to win each round. They’ve been quiet, through the spar. There’s a smirk on their face, but it’s frozen. Sylvain’s tempted to say there’s no humour in it at all.

“Yeah?” Yuri asks, with a mocking curl of their lip, “What tipped you off?”

Sylvain takes a breath, and charges. His crest flares to life inadvertently, his frustrations coming to bear, and he jabs his lance forth in a stab, yanking it back quick to swing, hoping the first strike is enough to goad Yuri into the path of his second.

No dice.

Yuri dodges low, swinging a foot out, and catches him as he moves, tripping him up and using the sword to encourage his fall. Sylvain stumbles and lands heavily on his side, rolling onto his back, the lance hitting the packed sand with a dull whack.

Sylvain grits his teeth, lying on his back and knocks his head back against the sand in frustration, “This,” he grinds out through his teeth.

Yuri points their sword at his throat, standing over him, looking down their nose at his face, “5-0, Gautier,” they drawl, “Are you even trying?” Yuri steps back, swinging the sword in their hand, “Get up,” they order as they return to the center, leaving Sylvain to glare up at the sky through the open roof.

The orange of the sky is making way for dark blue. Soon it’ll get hard to see.

Sylvain rolls onto his front and shoves himself up, snatching his worn lance and pointing it at Yuri from where he stands, “What is your _problem_?”

Yuri scoffs, “Land a hit on me and maybe I’ll tell you,” they return, raising their sword at the ready, shifting their stance to welcome Sylvain to try again.

He obliges. This time he forgoes finesse for speed. It doesn’t matter how clean he is, footwork is secondary. All he has to do is hit them once, just _once_ , and if it’s hard enough it’ll teach them a lesson.

Yuri dodges the first strike, but this time Sylvain doesn’t let the swing carry through. The lance is light, he can take advantage of that. The faster he strikes; the less time Yuri has to counter. He follows up with a rapid jab, then moves forward, relentless, pushing the trickster back. He’d never attempt this in a real battle with live steel, but in a spar, unorthodox manipulation of a practice lance is fair game.

He’s got them on the back foot, he can tell. There’s no smirk, no snide grin this time. Yuri’s eyes are sharp, their mouth in a thin line. Sylvain’s got them where he wants them now.

Sylvain sees it then, the misstep. All he has to do is angle his lance, pull back, swing across and he’ll hit them across the chest. He steps forth, pivots...

The gem on Yuri’s left hand flashes with an unearthly red light, and Yuri disappears into thin air.

Sylvain has all of one second to realize what’s happened, his eyes widening in shock, before he’s kicked square in the back, the sword slapping against the back of his forearm, causing him to drop his lance.

He lands on his front with a grunt, the lance flying out of his hands to slap against the sand before it rolls to the side.

“Fuck!” Sylvain yells, slamming a fist into the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, rising swiftly, carried by his rage, “What the fuck!?” he shouts, pointing at Yuri where they stand behind him now. He strides forward, right up into their smug face, “What the fuck is that?! I thought this was a spar!”

So is this was that was? A setup? This whole spar is a farce. Yuri never intended to let him win even one point. This has just been an exercise in getting beaten up for _nothing_.

“This _is_ a spar,” Yuri retorts, dancing away from Sylvain’s accusing finger, “Or do they not spar like they want to win in Faerghus?”

Sylvain can’t find the words. He’s furious at the cheat, upset he’s wasted his time, humiliated by this entire exercise, “You-”

“Don’t you spar with Felix?” Yuri asks, raising their eyebrow, nonchalant, like they hadn’t used a dirty magic trick to _warp_ around during what is meant to be a fair spar, “‘Anything goes’ is his favourite rule set. Thought you’d know that. Nobody pulls punches in war, why should we pull any while sparring?”

“Rrghhh!” Sylvain snarls inelegantly, kicking his discarded lance back into his hands, lunging forward again. He’ll get them this time, hit them right in their pretty smug face.

This time he gets the trickster in a lock, his lance across their blade. He’s stronger, he knows it. He can overpower them. “Not bad,” Yuri says, pushing back. They’re losing ground, they know it, Sylvain knows it. There’s drops of perspiration at their temple. It’s satisfying, to know Sylvain has them sweating, at least. “Come on,” they taunt, “You know how to leverage a lance, don’t you? I’m using a sword, you can land one hit, can’t you?”

Sylvain does, twisting the lance to knock Yuri to the side, using the end of the lance to rap them against the side as they dart away. One blow. Not death dealing. Not round ending. “ Fuck this,” Sylvain snaps, pointing the lance aggressively at them from half the pitch away, “You want to talk, stop beating me up as an excuse to not address it and say it to my face.”

Yuri responds by charging forward. Sylvain swings instinctively, and Yuri dodges, sliding under the arc of the lance past him, swinging around once they’re past him to rap him cross the back with the sword before kicking his knee out from under him for good measure.

“Goddess- damn it!” Sylvain swears as he stumbles, falling to a knee.

The trickster hums, an unimpressed sound, before striding off, their back to Sylvain, circling around in a wide arc, deliberately keeping their eyes off his crouched form.

Insult to injury. The mockery is the worst part about all of this.

“Leclerc!” Sylvain yells, jabbing his lance into the earth to pull himself back up to his feet.

“I heard you two, you know,” Yuri remarks, coming to a stop in front of Sylvain. They’re far out of reach, four lance lengths away. Sylvain will take the space. He needs a breather.

“... what?” he manages between breaths, swiping sweat out of his eyes.

“At the fishing pond,” Yuri clarifies, staring him down, “Before Felix left.”

“...Yeah?” Sylvain snaps, “And?!” It wasn’t a quiet argument. Sylvain would wager a good chunk of the monastery heard them. That’s not news.

“And... Felix mentioned you’re halfway good at the lance but,” Yuri scoffs, their sword tipping down as they inspect the nails on their free hand, “I’d say you’re not good for much besides talking horseshit out your ass.”

Sylvain shakes his head. So Yuri’s been beating up on him for the past however hours because he argued with Felix? Sylvain’s insulted that Yuri believes they have that right. “Oh,” he laughs, a bitter sound, “So is that what this is about? That was a private conversation!”

“You were yelling,” Yuri retorts blandly, “Sound carries, Gautier.”

“Regardless, that’s between Felix and me,” Sylvain emphasizes with a sneer, “It’s none of your business.” Felix is a grown man, and more than capable of defending himself. All the more so against _Sylvain_ , of all people. He doesn’t need anyone like _Yuri_ to fight for his honour. He’s perfectly capable of doing it _himself_. The arrogance of the lord of the underground is absolutely _staggering_ to assume they have this right.

“Yeah?” Yuri says with a cold grin, and in a flash, they’ve strode forwards, right up into Sylvain’s face, “I think you’ll find that if someone’s throwing baseless accusations at one of my friends,” they hiss, voice low and dangerous, “That I can and will make it my business if I want. Especially when it’s clear you have no idea what things are like here on this side.”

Sylvain shoves them, temper flaring. No idea? Yeah maybe he’s missing some information, but Sylvain isn’t stupid. “I have eyes, asshole!” he snarls, “I can see how things are like just fine.”

“Oh yeah?” Yuri says in mocking surprise, “Tell me what your Gautier eyes see. Tell me what three weeks idling around doing fuck all has shown you.”

Sylvain explodes. All his frustrations that he thought he’d dealt with, put aside, everything that’s bothered him since Hubert let him out of that Goddess damned room, every single thing that’s been chafing at him since he arrived at the monastery coming back to life in full force. Yuri wants to know what he’s seen? He’ll let them know _all of it_ if they want to know so damn badly.

“You want to know what I see?” he shouts, “I see a military force with time and space and resources. I see imperial leadership who can make time for tea, and hobbies, and side projects while fighting a whole war, while the country they wage war on crumbles under pressure and hardship - so much so they can barely smile when they win a victory on the field of war!”

“And that’s Felix’s fault?” Yuri says, voice raising.

“No!” Sylvain yells, then takes it back, “Yes! It’s all your faults!”

“You left the Kingdom too,” Yuri argues, “Don’t act like you get to sit on your high horse and act like a victim.”

“I know!” Sylvain shouts, the force of the words leaving his lungs making them echo against the stone walls of the space.

Yuri narrows their eyes, unsure of how to respond to the admission.

Sylvain clenches his fists, “I know I did! That’s not even...”

As soon as the outburst is out, the anger peters out, exhausted suddenly without warning. He’s played this song and dance to himself enough times in the last few days to know his anger never lasts. Even with Yuri here, goading him, stoking the flames of his annoyance, his frustration, his ire, Sylvain just can’t keep his anger going.

It’s all just a waste of energy, without Felix here.

“I’ve just...” Sylvain raises a hand, rubbing at his face, “I’ve seen enough to know that, right now, Felix has left Faerghus behind,” he says tiredly. The anger is gone, but the upset remains. “He doesn’t really care what happens in the Kingdom. He might have once, when the war started, but now? He’s here, and Faerghus doesn’t matter anymore to him,” Sylvain’s hand drops, and his eyes follow, squinting tiredly at the floor, “I can be mad about that,” he grumbles, finally.

Yuri doesn’t say anything. Sylvain doesn’t look up to see what the look on their face is. He’s had enough of being mocked.

“Whatever,” Sylvain dismisses, “It’s none of your business. This is between Felix and me. I said stuff I need to apologize for, but Felix owes me explanations as well.” He turns away towards the rack of lances, dragging his lance across the packed sand on the floor. He’s done here.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Yuri accuses before Sylvain can take more than three steps, and Sylvain turns to glare at them, “I knew you were foolish, but I didn’t know you were stupid as well.”

Sylvain just stares at them. Even now they want to keep arguing? He really doesn’t have the energy for this.

“You really think Felix doesn’t care?” Yuri asks, a hand on their hip, the other waving their practice sword in agitation, “That turning his back on his homeland, his friends, and family didn’t come with a cost he paid?” Yuri scoffs, “Come on, Gautier, you know him better than that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sylvain says with a heavy frown, “I know! I know!!! But what else can I think when it doesn’t look like he spares any thought to what he left behind! He hasn’t said a single word about Faerghus, about his homeland, the whole time I’ve been here!”

“Yeah,” Yuri rolls their eyes, and the sight of it builds the rage again in Sylvain’s chest, “Because you two don’t talk.”

“We don’t-” Sylvain chokes on his outrage, “Felix and I have been talking the whole time I’ve been here until he just up and left!”

“Stop playing stupid,” Yuri snaps coldly, and Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut, teeth grit at the order, “That won’t work on me.”

Playing _stupid_? Now what are they going on about?

“Yeah, you’re friends,” Yuri acknowledges with a furrowed brow, “You’re clearly close, it’s obvious when anyone looks at you two. But even I can tell you two don’t talk about your feelings - not to each other. I _know_ Felix, well enough that I know it takes maybe one and a half bottles of hard liquor or one hell of a bad day to hit that point of nostalgia before he starts spilling his guts,” they glance over at Sylvain, eyes half lidded, so Sylvain can see the gradient of eyeshadow clearly on their lids, “I may not know you, but even from what little I saw before you blew your top at Felix, I can tell you bottle shit up. Like hell you’ve spoken to Felix about the stuff that’s actually bothering the two of you.”

Sylvain doesn’t even know what to say to that. There’s so much to parse out. That Felix drinks. That Felix drinks in _Yuri’s_ _company_ and spills secrets while inebriated. That Yuri really does know Felix well enough to know what it takes for Felix to share, and that Yuri can read Sylvain well enough to know how he deals with his problems.

“It’s classic Faerghus repression,” Yuri says with a roll of their eyes, “It doesn’t take an accomplished scholar to see it from the other end of the monastery.”

Sylvain laughs. Classic Faerghus repression? Where do they even get off, saying something so ludicrous, “What the hell do you know about Faerghus?”

“I’m _from_ Faerghus, you fucking idiot,” Yuri snaps, swinging their sword through the air in agitation, “Before I was pushed into Abyss, I was a ward of Count Rowe.”

Sylvain jerks back as if struck, the words blindsiding him.

Suddenly it makes a lot more sense: why Felix could be friends with Yuri. Why they seem so familiar in interaction. How it could be that Felix could have fostered a quick friendship with the illusive trickster in the short time of the war. Formed a friendship closer than what Felix has with Ashe, whom Felix has known longer.

“...What,” Sylvain says anyway, because despite that puzzle piece falling into place, there are a dozen more around it still missing.

Yuri is from _Faerghus_? And was the ward of a prominent house at that? That seems like something Sylvain, as a noble son of Faerghus who was required to know and to get to know every notable heir of every major house in the Kingdom, should have known.

And yet.

Yuri huffs, resting their sword hand against their hip and gesturing sharply with their other, “Why the hell do you think Felix gets along with me so well?”

“Because you’re good with a sword!” Sylvain replies with complete seriousness.

Yuri just stares at him, dumbfounded for a long handful of seconds before they groan, exasperated, “Seiros save me,” they mutter, turning away to run a hand over their face.

“Ok, fine,” Sylvain agrees, for argument’s sake, fighting down the rush of irrational embarrassment for not knowing something that he had no way of knowing anyway, “So you’re from Faerghus. What the hell do you know about Felix and his... whatever.”

“I was there when his father tried to kill him!” Yuri snaps. and Sylvain chokes on his indignation, the heat of his frustration sapped all at once with an ice cold chill. The words like a cutting blizzard gale through the winter desert, freezing unprepared hikers solid from the inside out.

The fight leaves Sylvain all at once. The empty training grounds seem to go from loud with the echoes of their movements and their words to deathly silent.

“Surely you know about it,” Yuri continues, “No way the Duke Fraldarius was allowed to _not_ make a big deal about it, when he inevitably went back to Fhirdiad after that dramatic fallout.”

Sylvain swallows. “...Yeah,” he says faintly. He knows. “I was there when he...” he tightens his grip on his lance, loosens it deliberately, to stop straining his hand, “When he disowned him publicly.”

When the Duke Fraldarius failed to personally bring Felix back to Fhirdiad, he had to explain his failure to the King. Felix’s continued defiance had to be answered for by his house. Given the standing of House Fraldarius, there was only one thing that would have been enough for the Duke to do, if he intended to maintain the respect he commanded as the King’s right hand.

Well, as far as the man thought he had to, anyway.

Sylvain hurts just thinking about it. It’s not a memory he likes to dwell on.

“Yeah?” Yuri says impatiently, heedless to Sylvain’s sudden melancholy, “Here’s what you don’t know: it took months for Felix to recover from that battle,” they huff, “Physically, it was a rough ride, but we did it, and Felix has always been diligent about making sure he does the right thing to keep himself in the best shape, as long as someone makes sure he doesn’t overdo it. But mentally?”

Yuri takes a deep breath, stabbing their practice sword into the dirt, pulling their arms up to cross them across their chest.

Sylvain stands still and listens.

“When the proclamation went out from the Kingdom, Felix didn’t talk to anyone for two weeks,” Yuri says in a rush, the words pushed forth with agitation, as if they’ve been waiting to be voiced, the frustration boiling over until the dam holding them back had broke, “He did nothing but alternate between lying in the infirmary bed in the dark, pick at the food they tried to give him, and wander the monastery in the dead of night in the winter cold. When they gave him permission to train and spar again, he spent every waking hour he could in the training grounds or the knight’s hall.”

It sounds like him. Sylvain shivers. The words don’t paint a happy picture, and logically Sylvain knows what happened would have been rough on Felix. But to hear an account of it, and to so easily imagine it because he _knows_ Felix - he’s seen him mourn before - it still strikes something inside him that hurts greater than any blow from Yuri’s wooden training sword ever could.

“The Emperor herself barred him from taking to battle and banned him from taking any future missions in Faerghus for the foreseeable future. He hasn’t stepped foot in the Kingdom since,” Yuri glances away at the floor, eyes downcast, their expression one of regret, “At this rate, we don’t know if he’ll ever be able to step foot there ever again, before the war’s end.”

They sound solemn, saying that. Like it’s a tragedy that Felix might never be able to return to the Kingdom. Like Felix wants to, but he can’t.

That Felix misses it.

“He still won’t talk about it now, you know,” Yuri sighs, “Beyond the field report he had to give with the bare facts about what happened, nobody knows exactly what happened when he had to face his father, much less what he thought about it,” Yuri frowns, shaking their head, “We could tell it wasn’t good, what he was going through, but he never shared it in words. It took a long time for him to get back to what he’s been like now.”

Sylvain sniffs. It’s loud in the silence.

Yuri gives a reluctant laugh, a brief sound of amusement, “You know,” they muse, “Since you somehow bumbled your way here, Felix has been the happiest I’ve seen him in a long while.”

Sylvain doesn’t know what to make of that. He feels wrung out, like the conversation is pulling him back and forth in multiple directions; he can barely get his thoughts in order, much less his feelings. “...I didn’t know,” he says, numbly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

He doesn’t remember clearly the words he said to Felix in his fit of anger five days ago. He feels like he should, because in the wake of what he’s being told, he feels he ought to know exactly how wrong they were, not just have the vague sense that he may have been wrong, or more wrong than he thought.

“Of course you didn’t,” Yuri says, rolling their eyes as if it’s obvious, “I’m telling you now.”

Sylvain frowns down at their feet.

“I don’t know why you chose to leave the Kingdom to come here,” Yuri says, uncrossing their arms and snatching their practice sword back up before they begin to pace, back and forth in front of him, “I could be convinced you did it because of a genuine desire to leave Faerghus behind, and that you came here because you wanted to see Felix. I could also believe you did it on a whim after a stupid mistake and now you’re regretting your foolish decisions. Regardless, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain your anger is a projection of your own guilt, and that night, you put that burden on Felix.”

Sylvain looks up as Yuri comes to a stop, standing to face him with a keen and judging gaze, their sword pointed neutrally at the floor between them, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“I don’t care how justified you feel your anger is,” Yuri says coldly, their voice low, tone severe, “All I care about is that your actions have consequences.”

Sylvain bites his tongue. It’s clear Yuri’s done sharing whatever they wanted to share. The brief reprieve from Sylvain’s dressing down is over. There’s nothing else Yuri wants to humour him with.

“We’re in a war, Gautier,” Yuri says, “And you’ve proven your actions have enough sway to make an Empire general act impulsively and take a mission he doesn’t need to, which removes him from the stronghold at which he is stationed. This time there might not be any repercussions. Next time could cost lives - the lives of _my_ people,” they hiss, “You’re a liability, Gautier. Next time, think long and hard about what you’re doing here before you go around spouting shit.”

If Sylvain were a dumber man, he’d argue; he’d talk back.

Fortunately, even with his capacity for spite, for pettiness, he knows when it’s too dangerous to play with fire.

Yuri drops the practice sword, letting it clatter on the earth before their gaze darts off to the side, dismissive. “Clean yourself up,” they order as they stride off, “I’m done here. Next time I see you better be after you and Felix have worked out your horseshit.”

Sylvain turns to watch them go. It feels like a bad call, to keep his back to them, even if he knows, or at least suspects, that Yuri wouldn’t attack him now without reason.

He’s sore, he aches, he’s tired. In body, in spirit, in mind.

If Yuri really wanted to, they could kill him right here.

“You watch your back here, Gautier,” Yuri warns, as they snatch up their steel sword from the side wall before exiting the grounds, the heavy doors swinging effortlessly open to allow them to leave, “The walls have ears.”

The training ground doors swing shut behind them with a heavy thump, leaving Sylvain behind with his thoughts, the practice weapons they used, and a foreboding sense that he’s being displaced.

He’d always imagined himself as the one who would fight for Felix’s honour when he was younger. That he’d be there to defend him when he couldn’t defend himself. That if someone spoke poorly of Felix, Sylvain would be there to beat them up, prove them wrong, make them apologize.

It feels wrong, to be the one being beaten.

**~o.O.o~**

By the time Sylvain manages to put the training grounds into some neat order in the dark and limps his way to the dining hall, the kitchens are closed. He’s not particularly hungry, not after the physical and verbal beating he more or less suffered, but it’s grating, all the same, to know he doesn’t even have the option to eat.

He’s sore, and the places he’s been struck are starting to redden and swell, not to mention he’s covered in training ground grit and sweat. The best thing to do would be to soak in a bath and clean himself up, try to ease his aches. He grabs his things from the dorm, then makes his way to the bath house, wincing all the way.

Sylvain locks himself in one of the private bath stalls, drawing himself a warm bath, cleaning himself up before he sits in the tub, trying not to lie on any of the bruises on his backside. As soon as he finds a position halfway tolerable, he tips his head back against the rim, stares at the ceiling, and tries not to think.

Through the locked stall door, he can hear the occasional sounds of people walking in, the splash of water, squeak of stall doors. The hour is late, but the bath house remains busy enough.

Sylvain closes his eyes and drifts.

He feels... empty. Blank. His anger has hollowed him out again. He’s learned what he wanted to know - about Felix’s experiences in the war. Yuri did give him what he was looking for in the end.

But all it came with was a great sense of shame. He should have known, of course, that Felix had a hard time. It’s not like he was ignorant of what battles Felix had been involved in. He’d known, after the Duke Fraldarius returned to Fhirdiad injured, that Felix had been injured as well by his father’s hand.

He shouldn’t have needed to have it spelled out for him.

Sylvain lies in the bath until the water grows cool, then lies a little longer, staring blankly at the ceiling until he starts to shiver. Then he gets out, grabbing for a towel to dry himself off.

After he drains the bath, tying a towel round his waist, he flips the sign to indicate the stall needs to be cleaned, then returns to the common changing space to find a mirror with a clean basin to finish his evening cleaning routine.

There’s nobody in the common area when he returns to it. He must have been in the bath a long while. All the better. He doesn’t need random Imperials gawping at his collection of battle souvenirs. Studying himself in the mirror, he can tell it’s going to be an impressive collection Yuri has imparted upon him. It’s too early for them to bruise properly just yet, but there are telltale pink and red marks. His clothes dissipated some of the blows; they won’t look terrible, but he’ll feel them.

At least they spared his face.

There’s a squeak of a hinge behind him - a changing stall, probably - before the sound of footsteps. They seem to amble by, quiet and slow - just beyond the mirror’s reach, so Sylvain can’t see them reflected, before they stop, suddenly, nearby.

Sylvain frowns, turning to see who it is, tell them off for staring, but he falters, when he recognizes who it is.

“Felix?” he asks, faintly, in mild disbelief.

How many days has it been? Is Felix back already? He doesn’t remember how long Ferdinand said he’d be away.

The other man blinks tiredly, his hair limp and wet. He must have slipped into the bathhouse to wash while Sylvain was soaking for however long, “...Sylvain,” he responds, quietly.

Sylvain gapes, feeling a weird kick in his chest. He wasn’t prepared to see Felix so soon. He was sure he’d get at least a day to wallow on what he learned today, before Felix’s inevitable return.

The swordsman’s hair is down, and like this, Sylvain can see how choppy it is, growing back awkwardly, the length uneven. He’s dressed only in his night pants, the shirt draped over an arm, a bag of his things in his arms, honey brown eyes bleary in the low firelight in the bathhouse. He looks exhausted.

“You’re... back,” Sylvain says, uncertainly.

Felix blinks, unsure of what to make of that, “Yes,” he says faintly, “I... suppose I am.”

Sylvain frowns, “Are... you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Felix says, stretching his arms out and setting his things aside on a nearby bench, “It’s been a long few days. I’ve... never really been fond of riding long distances.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, you look...” Sylvain winces, “You look tired.”

“Hm,” Felix responds nonchalantly, eyeing Sylvain from head to toe, “And.. how about you?” he asks, gaze lingering on a particularly large red spot on his shoulder, “Are you alright?”

“I mean, I’ll be feeling sore for the next few days,” Sylvain says, as casually as he’s able, “You know, Yuri really doesn’t hold back, do they?”

Felix frowns, brow furrowed in concern, “...You... fought with Yuri?”

“It was a spar, I think,” Sylvain says, scratching at his face as he steps out of the nook to approach Felix, to talk to him more properly, face to face, “Hey, they said that they wanted to face a decent lance fighter and I was there so...”

“... I see,” Felix says dubiously. He looks like he wants to ask more, but isn’t sure how to proceed about it.

“I don’t think they like me,” Sylvain says with a crooked grin, a noncommittal shrug, hoping to redirect Felix’s concern.

He doesn’t need to know what went on.

Felix hums, turning away to rummage through his things, “They just have to get used to you,” he says, finding a hairbrush and setting to work at his choppy hair, “Yuri doesn’t trust easy. You have to work for it.”

“Right,” Sylvain says awkwardly.

That’s an understatement, if that. He has a lot of work to do if he wants Yuri to ever trust him. Sylvain’s not sure he really wants to put in the effort, if he’s honest.

They lapse into silence after that. Sylvain turns back to the mirror, but doesn’t know what to do with himself. Felix is back, and he’s not angry. So that’s good. Sylvain glances over at him, to find him finished with his hair, frowning distastefully at it in the next mirror over as he tugs at the uneven strands. There’s a story there, about his hair. Now is probably a bad time to ask about it.

When is the appropriate time to bring up their fight? Sylvain feels awkward, unsure of what to do next. Felix doesn’t look inclined to talk about it, but he’s also willingly sticking near Sylvain, doing his own thing in his company. If he’s not mad anymore, would it be better to bring it up now, or stay in this uncertain post-fight-pre-makeup period, dodging the topic until a better time?

“What,” Felix says flatly, yanking Sylvain out from his frantic thoughts.

“Hm?” Sylvain asks, shaking his head as he comes back to himself.

“You’re staring,” Felix says, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh uh, nothing,” Sylvain says, gaze darting aside, then back on Felix, “It’s just, I...” he trails off, looking for something that might feasibly have grabbed his attention.

Felix shifts his weight, dropping his hairbrush back on his pile of things. The movement gives Sylvain a clear view of his torso, the litany of scars on his upper body. There’s a nasty one, on his left side, wide and jagged, through or just under his lowest rib, cutting through to his side.

“I’ve... never seen that scar before,” Sylvain says, pointing at it, “Must have been a nasty one.”

“Hm?” Felix looks down, “Oh,” he says, with a grimace, trailing a hand over the center of it. The width of it spans half his palm sideways, “It’s... it doesn’t bother me anymore,” he says, looking away.

Sylvain frowns, “Where did you get it?”

“...Charon,” Felix says reluctantly, “Five moons ago. Just before the winter.”

“Charon...” Sylvain murmurs. He should know this, there’s a jump in his memory, a spark pulling the connections together, “Is this...” he realizes, “Was this from your...”

Felix grits his teeth, crossing his arms, “Yes. When the old man and I... You heard about it?” he asks uncertainly, glancing back at Sylvain.

“Of course I did!” Sylvain exclaims, moving closer, drawn in by the jagged mark of it, unable to look away, “Everyone in Fhirdiad knows about--” he exhales, a forced breath, “Felix, your father came back with the Aegis Shield and disowned you in front of Dimitri! They were saying you cut his arm clear off! I mean, they reattached it, sure, but... they were saying his lance arm will never be the same. He said he injured you but we... I didn’t...”

Sylvain’s hand moves forward, unbidden, he presses his right hand against it, measuring the span of it against his larger palm. Felix lets him, breath catching once in mild surprise at his touch, before he settles, breathing quietly. He runs cold, but his skin is warm, under Sylvain’s touch.

“I was worried about you,” Sylvain murmurs, his thumb running absently over a jagged edge, feeling the difference between marked and unblemished skin, “But nobody knew what he meant, and he never elaborated about how bad he hurt you. We... I couldn’t exactly reach out to the Empire and just ask if you... if you survived, and you... after that you basically disappeared. This is... It must have...” he trails off.

Felix looks up at him, blinking slowly, his arms limp at his sides.

“It’s a big scar,” Sylvain finishes lamely, voice trailing off in uncertainty.

“It was my own fault,” Felix says neutrally, turning away, “I turned my back on him.”

“He...” He _what_? Sylvain’s fingers flex, his left arm coming up, planting his hand on Felix’s right shoulder, holding him still, turning him to face him properly, “Felix, he struck you from behind?”

Felix scoffs, “As if the old man is fast enough to do that,” he says derisively.

It’s not a no, Sylvain can’t help but notice. Felix didn’t deny it outright.

“But he tried?” Sylvain prods.

The swordsman bites his lip, uncomfortable. His breath has quickened, his chest moving under Sylvain’s hand.

He really did. The scar doesn’t cut into Felix’s back, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t come from behind. Felix is fast, he must have turned to meet the blow. If Duke Fraldarius hadn’t, Felix would have just said so.

It’s... unbelievable. One of, if not the most honourable men of his generation, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, struck his own son in battle from _behind_.

“Like I said,” Felix says firmly, voice hard, as Sylvain tries to quell the fury rising in his chest on his behalf, “My own fault. I was arrogant. Careless.”

That doesn’t make what the Duke did _right_. Sylvain’s gaze drops down again, drawn hopelessly back to the wide mark. Didn’t Felix deserve to be faced properly from the front in battle? He’s his _son_.

“I didn’t expect to cut his arm off when I swung,” Felix continues defensively, mistaking Sylvain’s distress for judgement, glancing away when Sylvain’s stare leaps from the scar under his palm to his eyes, “I just... moved.”

“That’s...” Sylvain swallows, struggling to find a word that encompasses the utter well of despair that opens up, to imagine the moment, what it would have been like to be either of them - Rodrigue, stabbing a lance into his son, Felix, swinging his sword to cut through the arm of his father - and the awful mix of fury and guilt on either side, to be pushed to the point of violence, and yet know that horrible injury they left on the other was due to their own action. “That’s awful,” he whispers.

“That’s war, Sylvain,” Felix responds quietly, an unreadable expression on his face as he meets his gaze solemnly.

He can feel it, each quiet breath Felix takes, the pull of each breath to shift his ribs, under his hand. If the Duke had aimed his lance more to the left, or slightly higher up... If he’d managed to stab through... If Felix hadn’t had the benefit of an Empire healer in the aftermath of the battle... If the healer hadn’t been good enough...

Felix could have very well died at the hands of his own father, five months ago.

Sylvain hates thinking about it: fighting family on the field of war. He’d fought Miklan, and it was awful enough to have to do it not once, but twice, after the Lance made its ire known and made a beast of his brother in the flesh. And he had hated Miklan. There was no love lost between them, besides the complicated misery of grieving what could have been in a better world if Miklan was a better man.

If fighting Miklan was so awful, how much worse would it be, if he had to fight his father?

How much worse was it for Felix, to fight his own father, with whom he had a complicated history, knowing that between the two of them, they did still consider each other family?

And yet Felix had done it unflinchingly. Faced the weight of his history, and the face of his father head on, and even now, Sylvain can see, he has his regrets with what happened. Despite Felix’s animosity with his father, for most of his teenage years. going so far as to declare he hated Rodrigue, Felix had never stopped caring about him. To be in a position to have turned his back on his father meant they had ceased fighting, or that Felix had defeated his father and spared his life on that battlefield. Either position means Felix made a choice not to fight him to the death.

What must he had been thinking, on that field of battle? Did his resolve weaken, faced the man who raised him? How did it feel, to fight knowing that he or his father might die at the end of the clash?

How do you fight with that knowledge? How do you live knowing what you’ve done to someone you care for?

‘Easy’, was it, what he said before Felix left? ‘Fun’.

Of course war isn’t _fun_. How could he have thought to say such stupid things?

“...I’m sorry,” Sylvain chokes out suddenly, and Felix looks up at him, alarmed at the expression on his face. His eyes feel wet, heavy, “I...”

Felix steps away to give him space, and Sylvain lets him, the warmth of him fleeing as Sylvain’s arms drift down, back to his side.

“I shouldn’t have said all that stuff to you, back... before you left,” Sylvain chokes out, “I was... it was... I was out of line. I know you haven’t been... having fun, fighting on this side. You’re... You’re fighting for what you believe in and... I shouldn’t have undermined how hard it must be to... to fight against Faerghus.”

“Sylvain,” Felix murmurs, raising a hand, then holding it awkwardly up, unsure how to approach, unfamiliar with the motions of comfort.

“I’m glad you have friends supporting you on this side,” Sylvain continues, “I don’t know... I don’t like that... I wasn’t here for you these last two years, but I... I think I would hate it more, thinking you had to bear... everything about fighting Faerghus, fighting your family... alone. I’m glad you have people to support you.”

Felix looks stricken, watching Sylvain as he struggles through his words.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” Sylvain cries, the first of his tears starting to leak from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks, “I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Felix says quickly.

Sylvain laughs wetly, scrubbing at his eyes, wiping the tears away. He’s clearly uncomfortable, being confronted with a teary Sylvain. It’d be funny if the whole situation weren’t so sad.

“I’m sorry too,” Felix says, determinedly, moving closer to rest a hand on Sylvain’s arm in comfort, “For never reaching out.”

“How were you going to reach out?” Sylvain asks with a wet huff, a disbelieving sound of amusement, “We were on opposite sides Felix. You couldn’t exactly walk into Fhirdiad to tell us why you were doing everything and walk out. And there’s no guarantee any letters you’d written would ever have... don’t apologize for that.”

“I never tried, Sylvain,” Felix retorts, and Sylvain listens, watching as he meets his eyes, then glances away, “I think I should have,” he admits, “I can be sorry for that."

Sylvain sniffs, his eyes drying. “Okay,” he says simply, unable to think of what else to say.

“And I’m sorry for not trying to speak with you about... Faerghus,” Felix barrels on, staring determinedly at Sylvain’s chest, as he admits his wrongs, “About your feelings, before we... fought.”

“That’s alright,” Sylvain assures him. He won’t deny it’s... nice, validating, for Felix to apologize, but he doesn’t have to. Sylvain was the one who did him wrong. “It’s not like I wanted to talk about it-”

“I should have tried harder,” Felix insists, with a frown.

“Yeah, I don’t know if that would have made it any better, honestly...”

“Sylvain...” Felix says with an exasperated sigh, “I know...” he trails off, trying to compose his thoughts.

Sylvain waits.

“I know you’re conflicted about why you’re here,” Felix says, when he’s found his words, “I can’t... deny that I’m glad you are here, but... you don’t have to pretend you don’t regret leaving Faerghus to be here.”

“Hey,” Sylvain says with a stilted laugh, “I don’t regret-”

“Sylvain,” Felix interrupts, before Sylvain can dismiss his worries, assure him it doesn’t matter, “Let me finish.”

Sylvain swallows back his words. Felix’s eyes are intent, fixed on his face. Whatever he wants to say, he won’t let Sylvain waylay him.

He takes a deep breath, then speaks: “Whatever your reasons for leading Faerghus, no matter how justified you feel they are, or how much or little you think you regret it, I know it isn’t easy. No matter how determined you were to leave, or how much time passes after you abandon it, I know there’s... always a part of you that will consider the Kingdom home.”

There’s an ache in his chest. Felix’s words hit home, because they’re true. Sylvain does miss Faerghus. He complained about it, and it wasn’t perfect - Goddess knows Fhirdiad has been a tumultuous mess of egos and propriety, but it was still _home_ in a way nowhere else is. The words hit harder because Sylvain can tell, the way Felix says it, that Felix knows because he feels the same.

“That’s okay, Sylvain,” Felix assures him, his gaze dropping, “I _know_. I just want you to know that... whatever your regrets are, or your worries... You don’t have to suffer them alone. I let you do that last time and... I regret that, what happened.”

Sylvain reaches out impulsively for Felix’s hand. The swordsman takes it.

“It’s true that I... I don’t know what Faerghus has been like, these past two years,” Felix admits, then huffs quietly, under his breath, “Truth be told, I haven’t... I don’t let myself think about it if I don’t have to. I made my choices and I told myself that if I stand by them and want to see the end of this path, I can’t look back,” he looks up again, to meet Sylvain’s gaze with his own, tired but bright, “But... _you_ know, Sylvain, how Faerghus has fared. You’ve lived it. And... whatever you’ve experienced... it must not have been... good, if seeing how things are at Garreg Mach made you mad.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Sylvain says frantically. He doesn’t know what to do with all the words Felix is telling him. It doesn’t feel right, to be apologized to like this. Isn’t he the one who owes Felix the apology? “Felix. It’s not your-”

“My point is,” Felix cuts in, raising his voice to drown out Sylvain’s own, “I’m here for you, Sylvain, if you need me, so just... talk to me, so I can listen. Stop trying to... to spare my feelings by saying it doesn’t matter.”

Sylvain hesitates, clutching at Felix’s hand. His words die in his throat: his assurances to Felix not to worry about it, not to carry Sylvain’s feelings in his mind. Of course, Felix sees right through him, what he’s trying to do.

Of course Felix won’t let him keep doing it.

“I don’t...” Felix hesitates, his gaze darting down, fixing on a point between the two of them, avoiding meeting Sylvain’s own, “I don’t like fighting with you,” he whispers in an honest confession.

Sylvain huffs quietly, under his breath, in agreement. He feels warm, suddenly, around the lump of feeling in his chest.

“That’s all,” Felix says, with a shrug, keeping his eyes down. He looks uncertain, reluctant to look up and see Sylvain’s response. He knows Felix has trouble speaking his thoughts. Two years hasn’t changed that, based on Felix’s obvious discomfort as he speaks. What he’s just said must have been something he’s prepared, composed in his mind, and practiced to let Sylvain know that he understands.

He’s acknowledging that he’s aware of the reasons for Sylvain’s upset when they last fought. Admitting that he’s willing to listen to Sylvain if he wants to talk about it.

It’s so much more than Sylvain expects or deserves.

“Felix,” he says gently.

Felix doesn’t move, only tenses briefly, as if bracing himself for Sylvain’s response. He doesn’t look up, keeping his gaze fixed down, away from Sylvain’s face.

Sylvain takes a step forward, wetting his lips as he considers his words.

“Hey,” he tries, but the other man doesn’t react, determined not to have to meet his eyes.

If Felix won’t look at him properly, he’ll simply have to guide him along.

Sylvain’s arm moves instinctively, in a practiced motion. He reaches out, his palm cupping Felix’s cheek across from him, gently lifting his palm until Felix’s head tips up, his eyes following automatically to finally meet his own.

“I...” Sylvain swallows, “I don’t like... fighting with you either.” he says quietly.

Felix blinks once, his eyes wide.

“I... I do want to talk with you,” Sylvain says firmly, “About everything. But only if you want to listen.”

“I do,” Felix says quickly, then hesitates, his gaze darting away, before it returns just as quick, as if surprised by the speed and conviction of his own words, “I... I know it won’t be easy to hear but...” he trails off, weighing his words.

“...But?” Sylvain dares to ask, in the uncertain silence.

Felix swallows. Sylvain can feel the jump of his throat when he does, just at the base of his palm. “It matters to you,” Felix says quietly, and Sylvain’s breath catches in his throat.

The words brush against something fragile inside him. It’s a simple statement, but it knocks the wind from his lungs, momentum carried with their weight.

A conversation with Felix has been what he’s been hoping for, these last few days. A chance to air all of his misgivings, for Felix to explain his own: about Faerghus, about the war, about the choice Felix made that splintered Sylvain’s world in two, sowing doubt in his convictions and his loyalties. He knows it’s not a conversation Felix wants to have; that Felix - already so reluctant to be vulnerable - is unwilling to entertain thoughts that batter his emotional core, in fear they might punch through the walls he’s spent years putting together. He’d thought Felix would agree to it, if only to keep the friendship the two of them have intact, because as much as Sylvain values their friendship, he knows Felix does too.

But for Felix to say that he wants to do it, not just because it means he can keep his friendship with him, but because he knows agreeing to talk about it matters a lot to Sylvain...

He can’t remember if the words have ever been said to him before. If anyone has ever done anything for him purely because it mattered to him. He can’t even conjure up the thought of who might even have said that to him, and meant it.

Sylvain takes a shaky breath, his thumb brushing absently over Felix’s cheek where it rests.

He has a quiet, wild thought. Unbidden, it blooms to life in his head, catches hold, jerks his heart to life.

He realizes if he leans forward just a little closer...

Felix’s gaze drops, just slightly, from Sylvain’s eyes to the bottom half of his face. He can wager a guess at where it’s landed; it’s a movement Sylvain has seen dozens of times, on dozens of other faces in his long, long history as a flirt and a heartbreaker.

For a single dizzying moment, he wonders what might happen next.

Sylvain tips his head down, just the barest movement.

Felix jerks as if startled, gaze dropping lower in a frantic motion to land on his chest, and Sylvain barely avoids getting hit in the chin by Felix’s forehead when the shorter man darts forward and buries his face in his shoulder, his arms coming around Sylvain’s broader frame in an awkward embrace.

The moment passes as swiftly as it came.

Sylvain’s arms move instinctively, coming up to wrap around Felix’s shoulders, and the younger man hunches them when he does, curling up, seeking comfort. It’s nostalgic, Sylvain thinks, as he rests his cheek against Felix’s head, squeezing a little harder. He hasn’t hugged Felix like this since when Felix was much younger, smaller, sweeter. He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Felix mumbles something into his shoulder. Sylvain isn’t sure what it is, it’s so quiet, muffled into his bruised flesh.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter. Felix has always been most straightforward in his actions, rather than his words.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?” he assures him, quietly.

Felix responds by squeezing his arms a tiny bit tighter, his fingertips brushing Sylvain’s back.

Sylvain pats his head, “Yuri wiped me out and you just got back so...” he sighs, “Tomorrow.”

Felix turns his head, resting his cheek on Sylvain’s shoulder, facing away from Sylvain’s neck. He nods once, “Okay.”

There’s only so long Felix can tolerate the hug, even as the initiator of it, and it isn’t long before he squirms out of Sylvain’s grasp, cheeks pink in clear embarrassment as he steps back, crossing his arms defensively.

Sylvain gives him a crooked grin, trying not to lament the loss as Felix steps back, missing the warmth of the hug already, no matter how stiff and awkward it was.

It was nice while it lasted.

“We should...” Felix gestures awkwardly at his pile of things, “I should.” he says lamely, and then turns and goes, snatching his stuff up and fleeing for a changing stall, even though he doesn’t need one, having already changed into his night pants, needing only to don his night shirt as well.

Sylvain stifles a laugh. His amusement makes way easily for a powerful feeling of relief.

It’s been a long five days.

But maybe they’ll be okay.

Sylvain finishes his nighttime routine at a leisurely pace. After seeing Felix, finally speaking with him again, after five days dwelling on their fight, worrying he’d damaged something he never wanted to break, a weight feels like it’s left him.

Even the aches and bruises Yuri left on him don’t hurt as much, somehow. The doubts he’d walked into the bath house with feel further away than they’ve ever been.

Despite what he’s sure to be his much slower pace at dressing, Sylvain still runs into Felix again, when he goes to exit the bathhouse by its main door. He raises a brow in question - he was sure Felix would have left by now - but Felix only stares neutrally back at him.

Whatever vulnerabilities he’d shown are already locked away again. He looks much more himself - composed and serious once again, with only just the barest quirk of his mouth to show he’s open, once again, to Sylvain, their previous conflict smoothed over by the promise of a future talk.

“Hey Felix,” Sylvain calls, as they walk back to the dorms, side by side, “I...”

Felix looks over.

“Thank you,” Sylvain says sincerely.

Felix frowns, tilting his head in question.

“For trying,” Sylvain clarifies, trying to convey with his voice what his words apparently couldn’t - how much it means to him that Felix shared what he did.

“I haven’t tried yet, stupid,” Felix retorts, turning away, colour rising in his cheeks, walking faster, “Stop giving me credit for what I didn’t do.”

Sylvain catches up to him, the length of his legs making it easy, “Yeah you have,” he argues, “You started today. You’re trying now.”

Felix huffs, keeping his gaze down on the floor in front of them, the stone path lit barely by the torches lit by the nightly patrol.

“I know I haven’t... been great about... being here, at Garreg Mach,” Sylvain continues haltingly, daring to walk closer, to bump his arm against Felix’s own, “But I... I promise I’ll try harder too.”

Felix doesn’t ask him what he means by that, but he does bump him back.

They walk back to their rooms in comfortable silence, the world righting itself around them once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow been a while but i'm back!!! i write!! too much!!!
> 
> anyways, my brain finally figured out the next arc of this story sooo we'll see how things go with my, frankly, terrible schedule haha
> 
> thank you for your patience 😅


	13. The Tragedy of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a disownment comes in two halves

**Ethereal Moon  
** **1182**  
 **Autumn  
** **Castle Blaiddyd, Fhirdiad**

The first flakes of snow have just started falling from the overcast Fhirdiad sky when a city watchman arrives at the castle gates and alerts the castle watchman of the returning banner of Fraldarius waving in the wind at the southern outskirts of the capital.

The castle staff rush into a flurry of motion at the news, the tension that’s settled in over the last few days bursting suddenly with the impending return of the Duke and his knights. The marshal barking orders to ready the stables, the castle crier rushing to his post, the royal guard rushing to formation to receive, pages and squires sent out to alert the lords present in the home of the king.

A reedy beanpole of a squire is the one who finds Sylvain mid-spar with Ingrid on her day off from her duties as a knight of the Kingsguard, beating the restlessness out of each other, trying to distract from the rising anxiety that comes with helpless waiting for what could be monumental news. “Begging your pardon, milord,” the youth stammers when Sylvain shoves Ingrid back mid-bout, and he stutters through his announcement when the two of them lower their blunted iron practice lances to pay him mind.

It’s been eight days since the Duke Fraldarius readied a small unit of his best knights and made haste from the castle, rushing south as quick as they were able. Since his hurried departure, his reasons for leaving so suddenly have slowly emerged with each passing day, details coming to light in gossip between the lords, the Kingsguard, and from Dimitri himself when Sylvain braved his temperamental mood during a private moment between them to ask.

There’s only one reason the duke himself would make such haste to join a skirmish at the Southern territories of Charon and Galatea - so far from the major strategic military landmarks of the Holy Kingdom - that would be more appropriately handled by troops stationed in Charon and its immediate neighbours alone.

It’s for the same reason the duke has been looking more and more haggard in the last year, running himself into the ground carrying out his duties to his king while managing his own personal mission with Fraldarius’ network of spies and specially trained troops.

Felix.

As Sylvain recalls, it’s been one full year since Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius formally requested permission from His Majesty, King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, to be given full responsibility in the apprehension of his only son for the reason of turning his back on the Kingdom and betraying them to join the Adrestian Empire. The Duke argued that Felix must have been deceived by the Emperor, his decision forced in the Holy Tomb at Garreg Mach on such short notice, and that the Empire must be holding him hostage or exerting some yet unknown leverage to force him to cooperate, given his status as the only heir of Faerghus’ highest ranked noble house, He could not explain why Felix was actively fighting in battles for the Empire, as many eyewitness accounts confirmed, but argued that so long as Felix was alive, he did not believe he could not be brought back to the right side.

Dimitri had granted him that request, declaring Felix should be captured alive to explain himself before his King, and that Rodrigue would coordinate any mission to do so.

Archbishop Rhea had been furious and demanded Felix’s crimes against the church, against Faerghus, be paid with his life. She had been there, in the Holy Tomb, she reminded everyone present, and she had seen the intentions in his blackened, heretical heart, like she had seen in all all the traitors there that day. He was a treasonous rat, and deserved to be put down like the vermin he was for turning his back on the Goddess.

Dimitri had rebuked her at the time for overstepping her authority. Duke Fraldarius answered to the King of Faerghus, not the Church of Seiros. As King, he had given her safe harbour in Faerghus, and the least she could do to repay it was allow him to deal with his people as he saw fit.

His Majesty hasn’t stood up to the Archbishop as much, as of late. The toll of the war dragging on his spirits, preoccupying his mind with the needs of ghosts only he can see, while it seems to do the opposite for the leader of the Church, fueling her anger, her spite, and giving her boundless energy to feed the cogs of war.

Sylvain hastens his steps, rushing to the entrance hall as fast as he can without breaking rules of courtesy regarding running through the castle halls.

Duke Fraldarius’ return, after what must have been an encounter with Felix in battle in this latest rushed mission, is the culmination of the last year of his work.

Supposing the duke isn’t dead - and Sylvain doesn’t believe he is, as it would have been the first announcement made, even conveyed from the city gates - either Duke Fraldarius has succeeded and Felix is coming home, or he has failed and Felix has escaped, disappearing back behind the border into Empire territory, once again out of reach.

Or, worse yet - that horrible voice in the back of his mind awakens and says - Felix is dead, killed in battle by his father’s hand.

Sylvain doesn’t know if he’s excited or dreading the prospect of hearing concrete news of Felix instead of speculative rumour and unverified gossip, after so many moons. All he knows, is that he needs to be present to hear it.

He would regret not knowing, most of all.

**~o.O.o~**

It’s already crowded along the walls of the entrance hall when Sylvain arrives with Ingrid hot on his heels. The crowd has left a swath of open space in the hall - the great doors leading into entrance hall from the main courtyard is free of any obstructions, and the carpeted walkway through the hall is free of people - awaiting the Duke to walk through to address his King. Dimitri is already present, at the foot of the grand staircase leading to the depths of the castle’s main halls, flanked by Archbishop Rhea on his right and Dedue on his left. He’s dressed in the colours of his house, draped in furs, and armoured, despite the fact he will not take to the field of battle today - the proud imposing image of a wartime Faerghus King.

Sylvain meets his eye briefly. Dimitri’s nod of acknowledgement is short, stiff, and brief, before the King’s attention returns to the open doorway. Sylvain’s gaze darts to Dedue, who doesn’t look over at all, then to the Archbishop, who looks on, head tipped up imperiously, her pale green eyes narrowed and severe.

Seteth is standing behind the Archbishop, and to her right, a contingent of her most loyal knights stand at attention. On the other side, Sylvain can see his father, flanked by his attendants, and several other lords further down the line. There’s an empty space by his side, Sylvain turns away and pushes through the crowd to the side of the hall before his father can spot him. Ingrid nudges him and directs him to a halfway decent spot that would allow them full view of the hall, taking a firm grip of his left arm to pull him into position.

She’s nervous, Sylvain can tell by the furrow of her brow, the way she’s chewing on her lip.

He can sympathize. His heart feels heavy in his chest. He can feel each beat thumping against his his ribcage. He doesn’t know what he wants to see, to hear, when the Duke finally makes his way in.

Her grip slides down his arm until her palm meets his own, then she squeezes his hand, once.

Sylvain squeezes back.

“His Grace, The Duke Fraldarius!” the castle crier calls, and the murmur of the crowd falls to silence as the clank of armour heralds the arrival of the man they’ve been waiting for.

The Shield of Faerghus strides into the entrance hall, followed by his personal battalion, then the contingent of Fraldarius knights who had gone with him to Charon. Sylvain doesn’t know how many men the Duke left with, but even without knowing, he is fairly sure that fewer than had left have returned.

There’s no sign of Felix, if he’s been brought back with them at all.

The Duke is still armoured, the Fraldarius crest emblazoned on his armour, his cape trailing behind him. His hair is windswept, but looks limp in the places where it lies flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, his blue eyes hard and dull. He looks haggard, worn. He walks with his back straight, his steps deliberate, but he looks... off, somehow. Like it’s a strain to march too quickly.

His right arm looks odd. When Sylvain looks closer, the reason becomes apparent - the right gauntlet, vambrace, and couter is missing, the arm that the missing pieces of his armour would have encased is wrapped tightly in heavy layers of bandages.

There’s something held in his hands before him. It takes Sylvain a moment, from where he’s standing off to the side in the crowd, to recognize what it is, but when the Duke comes to a stop before his King, the identity of the object becomes clear.

The Aegis Shield - the relic of House Fraldarius.

The blood flowing through Sylvain’s heart freezes into solid ice. Distantly, he can feel Ingrid’s grip tighten on his arm, her fingers digging into his palm, but it’s nothing compared to the spread of cold dread, unfurling through his chest, choking him from within.

Felix had received his house relic from his father in the Guardian Moon of their academy year - a fitting moon, in hindsight, for the act. Despite his trepidation over what it meant to receive it, the inevitable march forwards towards an inheritance Felix never felt prepared for with Glenn’s sudden death, he had accepted it all the same.

He had spent weeks training with heavier and heavier shields strapped to his left arm as he moved through sword forms, adapted his combat to account for the weight, all to quickly prepare himself to wield the thing. Sylvain had felt it was rushed - he had not yet trusted himself to reliably use his own house's Lance of Ruin in battle. For Felix to push himself for the Fraldarius relic had seemed reckless, in comparison.

 _‘I’m not a fool, Sylvain,_ ’ Felix had said dryly, when Sylvain had teased him over his determination to learn to leverage its power, _‘If it will make me stronger, why wait? The only person holding me back from being able to use it is myself.’_

It had looked good on his arm. It fit perfectly, like it had been made for him.

When Felix had disappeared after the mission his class took in the Holy Tomb, the Aegis Shield had disappeared with him.

For Rodrigue to take it back means...

It means that Felix had relinquished it.

Had he done it willingly, while refusing to return to Faerghus himself? It seems unlikely. Duke Fraldarius would not have settled for just the relic if his son was within reach. He’d never had agreed to take it without at least attempting to capture Felix too.

The Empire would never give up the battlefield advantage a working relic could provide. It had to have been in Felix’s hands since Duke Fraldarius passed it to him. If Felix had been brought back, he’d have been paraded in by his father, wouldn’t he? That he’s not must mean he’s not here at all. Or that he’s not fit to march. So either Duke Fraldarius and his troops stole it back in the thick of battle or...

Sylvain stares hard at the shield, sitting innocuously in the Duke’s gloved hands, the bony face looking up through the high ceiling, into the sky.

Or Duke Fraldarius had retrieved it from Felix’s corpse after he killed him.

Sylvain’s eye darts down the line of procession, the Duke’s personal battalion, the Fraldarius knights he’d selected to accompany them. They’re all unhappy faces, dour and angry, down the line, but none of them appear to be carrying anything other than their own weapons, their travel packs. There’s no sign of anything big and unwieldy.

Nothing so noticeable as a coffin.

“Your Majesty,” Duke Fraldarius greets with a reverent bow. His personal battalion falls in line behind him in neat lines, doing the same.

“Rodrigue,” Dimitri says quietly, approaching cautiously from the bottom of the staircase, his eyes fixed unerringly on the relic in the Duke’s hands, “This is...” he trails off, meaningfully.

In the time since the war began, and perhaps even before, during the worst of the events at the academy, Dimitri’s expressions have greatly diminished. It’s hard, even for Sylvain, to really know what his friend, the former prince, now king, is thinking.

Faced with the Aegis Shield in Rodrigue’s hands, Sylvain would guess that Dimitri looks slightly haunted to see it.

“What happened,” Dimitri orders the duke to answer, pushing past his apprehension, fitting the mask of a ruler back on his face.

“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue responds deferentially, as he straightens. He looks pained, “I’m afraid... Felix is lost to us. He has turned his back on Faerghus and the Goddess. It was...” he shakes, grip tightening on the shield in his hands so hard that they tremor, visibly steeling himself for the words he clearly wishes he doesn’t have to say, “It was his choice to do so. He has left us of his own free will.”

Sylvain grits his teeth. Ingrid gasps, beside him. All through the entrance hall, whispers break out between lords and their attendants.

It’s nothing Sylvain didn’t already suspect. But to hear it so clearly declared by the Duke, who had spent so long wishing, hoping that what all the evidence told him was wrong...

It’s upsetting to know it’s true, after all.

Felix has abandoned Faerghus of his own free will. He’s not here. He’s escaped again.

It cuts deep - deeper than it had when Felix hadn’t returned home when Garreg Mach fell. There had been no word from Felix after his disappearance - he’d never written - and despite the rumour, the testimony of his involvement in Empire strikes, the lack of word from Felix himself meant his reasons were yet unclear. It meant there might be a hope of his potential return, that he didn’t truly believe in the Empire’s cause. That given the right leverage, the opportunity, he could be returned to Faerghus and fight for the right side.

Rodrigue’s confirmation of Felix’s treason has, in one fell swoop, severed that hope in two, poisoning the open wound of missing him such that it festers in Sylains heart.

“You’re injured, Rodrigue,” Dimitri says, gesturing meaningfully at his bandaged right arm.

The duke shakes his head, “Nothing that won’t heal,” he deflects, “With time.”

There’s movement behind the duke, suddenly, as the bishop leading his battalion steps forth, frowning heavily, hands clenched in fists, “Your Grace,” she says determinedly, out of turn, “I beg your pardon, but-”

“Please, Audrey,” the Duke interrupts firmly, glancing back to fix her a hard glance, speaking with authority, “Not now.”

She grits her teeth, but bows her head and steps back.

Sylvain’s gaze cannot help but be drawn back to the Duke’s heavily bandaged arm. He’s not well versed in faith - it was never an interest of his - but even he can tell there’s complex white magic woven into the wrappings.

Whatever injury the Duke sustained must be severe, for it to still require active management, these few days after battle.

Dimitri frowns, he must have come to the same conclusion as Sylvain - from where he’s standing it must be impossible to ignore - but he leaves it, prompting the duke to continue with his report, “What of the situation in Charon?”

Rodrigue nods, looking slightly relieved for the change in topic, “The imperials succeeded in setting fire to the northern grain stores in the region,” he reports, “But we drove them off before they completed their task and managed to contain the damage. Nonetheless... a significant amount of what was stored there was lost. Charon and Galatea will require much aid in the coming moons to weather the upcoming winter.”

Low murmurs break out in the crowd - expressions of dismay, upset. Ingrid sniffs from beside Sylvain, and she glares hard at the floor, her grip tightening on Sylvain’s arm again.

Sylvain squeezes her hand back, briefly. His mind is in turmoil. It’s awful, terrible news. Such a strike against the people of Faerghus hurts in more ways than one. Charon was already hard hit, being so close to the front lines, their regional military decimated in repeat strikes. This is a step beyond simply that. Surely... Felix wouldn’t have willingly taken part, would he? To strike at the citizenry, rather than the military?

Sylvain remembers Felix had been an impassioned defender of people who couldn’t defend themselves. He’d always been so angry with Faerghus lords who refused to take steps to protect their people. He’d resented his own father for paying so much attention to Fhirdiad, leaving the people of Fraldarius open to attacks by bandits and rogues while he spent time in the capital, letting responsibilities to Fraldarius fall to the wayside.

Surely... Felix wouldn’t have...

“What monsters,” Dimitri snarls, his voice cutting through the entrance hall to silence the crowd, “To deal such suffering to the people... They really are the most depraved of beasts. We’ll destroy them, all of them, for their crimes against our people!”

There’s an answering echo of agreement, through the hall. His anger spreads like wildfire through the crowd. Sylvain wishes he could be moved by it. All he feels is empty.

“What of the battle?” Archbishop Rhea asks, her voice echoing in the space, her words weighty, pulling attention to her easily, silencing the hall.

“Charon has taken significant losses, and Galatea has lost a small number of their pegasus knights, though their infantry are still strong in number,” Rodrigue answers, turning to her, “If we intend to hold the southern front... we will need to send reserve troops from the northern territories,” he bows his head, “I am willing to take responsibility for this, and can have Fraldarius soldiers ready to march by the end of the moon.”

Dimitri nods. From where Sylvain is standing, he can see the lords on the opposite side of the room turning to each other, discussing in low tones, shaking their heads, looking at the Duke with pity, judgement, and in some cases, anger. Margrave Gautier looks especially uncharitable in expression.

No doubt they believe the Duke must bear the burden of responsibility for providing the aid to Charon, given his son’s involvement in this latest act of war.

“The Aegis Shield...” the Archbishop says, then, and Sylvain’s attention returns to her. She’s looking intently at the relic in the Duke’s hand, unblinking, her green eyes shining as she studies it from where she stands, “You retrieved it then?”

“No,” the duke says, bowing his head.

“No?” she asks, looking mildly surprised, then perturbed. “Is it not there, in your hands?”

Rodrigue swallows, gripping the shield tightly in his hands. His right arm shakes, noticeably, “Felix...” he says faintly, then takes a breath, looking up again to meet her eyes, “Felix returned it to me.”

Somebody gasps loudly, and there’s a ripple of shock through the hall. Even Margrave Gautier looks surprised, brows raised at the declaration. Dimitri has grit his teeth, staring hard at the relic in the duke’s hands.

“He returned it?” Ingrid asks quietly to herself, before she looks up to meet Sylvain’s eye in question.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he looks away, back at the Duke, standing resolute and visibly unsettled where he stands.

It’s one thing for the Duke to have forcefully retrieved the Aegis Shield from an unruly, unworthy heir.

It’s another for Felix to give it back of his own free will.

For a legitimate heir to return their House relic - to decline it - is unheard of. There are many records of relics being forcefully retrieved from unruly heirs, unqualified successors - Sylvain knows better than any, having been party to House Gautier’s most recent case - but only in extraordinary circumstances has any willing denial of a house relic by its heir been recorded.

To receive a house relic as an heir is the greatest honour a noble child can receive. It’s the formal acknowledgement, acceptance of one’s role to continue the enduring family legacy, to continue serving the best interests of the house, of the Kingdom. Even if one didn’t truly have the best interests of their house and their Kingdom in mind, to have a house relic and a matching crest is to have _power_. Few would relinquish that willingly.

To give a relic back after accepting it is to decline the honour of being part of a noble house. It is to turn one’s back on the legacy of their family line, and to consciously, deliberately, refuse to carry it.

It’s tantamount to severing oneself from their family line.

Furthermore, Felix is fighting on the Empire side. His returning the Aegis Shield to his father has just shifted the balance of relics across battle lines. Duke Fraldarius also has a crest of Fraldarius - the Aegis Shield will obey him. If what the duke says is true, Felix has just willingly handed a powerful working tool in the war to the side opposing his own.

 _Nobody_ in their right mind would do such a thing.

And yet.

“I see,” Archbishop Rhea says neutrally, at a loss of what else she can say.

Sylvain swallows. His mouth feels dry. What does it mean, for Felix to have returned the relic? What did he risk and what is he risking, by doing so? And _why_ did he do it?

Duke Fraldarius falls to his knees, head bowed low before the King and the Archbishop, “I’d like to express my deepest apologies, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” he professes from where he kneels, “I had not... I failed to consider that Felix would be too far gone. That he would...” he trails off, unable to find the words.

“No, Rodrigue,” Dimitri steps forth, arms outstretched, urging the Duke to stand “I... I, too, wanted to believe Felix could be convinced to return. It was not wrong of you to have hope. I know I did as well, when you made your request of me.”

“Still,” Duke Fraldarius insists, stubbornly remaining on his knees, “I wasted much time and resources to this task, and we’ve lost much, indulging in my selfish desires. Lives, effort... time,” he shakes his head, bowing even lower, “I bear a great shame, for not giving my full attention to Your Majesty’s fight against the Empire, and diverting my responsibilities on a mission doomed to fail.”

Dimitri clenches his fists, his arms falling to his side.

“If I may...” the duke says, raising the Aegis Shield, offering it forth in his shaking hands, “I... wish to formally return the Aegis Shield to the church. I cannot use it.”

There’s another chorus of gasps, shocked exclamations in the hall.

“You bear the Crest of Fraldarius, do you not, Duke Fraldarius?” Archibishop Rhea asks, stepping forth, speaking clearly to hush the crowd, “The Aegis Shield will do you no harm.”

“You misunderstand me, Lady Rhea,” Rodrigue says quietly, looking up at last, and shaking his head, “It is not that I cannot use it, but that I... I do not wish to.”

She blinks, uncomprehending, as others in the hall whisper in hushed tones among themselves.

A working relic is a great boon in war, and yet the Duke Fraldarius would refuse to use it?

“I fear I am not worthy of it,” Rodrigue says, his voice shaking, tremulous with emotion, “Not after...” he swallows down his words, unable to speak them, and bows his head again.

Dimitri looks at a loss, turning to look at the Archbishop, unsure of what to do, how to proceed. The Archbishop looks on in mute surprise, eyes wide, studying the duke kneeling prostrate before her, the relic of his distinguished house held aloft, offered to her.

That the Duke Fraldarius, the second highest ranked noble in all of the Kingdom of Faerghus, would willingly give up his house’s relic to the Church is no small matter. The action signals a willingness to diminish the power of House Fraldarius within the Kingdom. Even with the weight of history borne by Fraldarius’ proud bloodline and the crest that remains alive in the blood of her descendants, the loss of a relic would weaken the house in more ways than one. Certainly, it would make it impossible for House Fraldarius to keep its standing and rank within the Kingdom.

Perhaps such a move shows his devotion to the Goddess, his willingness to give back to the church that what his house was blessed with in penitence for the shame of what his son has done.

All Sylvain sees is a pointless gesture that doesn’t help anyone, much less the Kingdom, to win the war.

After a long moment, Archbishop Rhea steps forward, her expression warming, features softening in a way Sylvain hasn’t seen for years, since he was a student at the monastery, “Please,” she says gently, placing a hand on the Duke’s shoulder, ushering him up, “Stand, Duke Fraldarius.”

The duke obeys, rising slowly, but his eyes remain downcast. The Aegis Shield sits still, in his hands, offered forward, tremoring with the shaking of his injured right arm.

“I confess,” Archbishop Rhea muses, stepping back, eyes glancing to the side, “I was... angry, when you and his Majesty defied me, when you took on this quest, but I see now my anger was misplaced,” she looks back at the Duke, folding her hands before her, “My love of the Goddess blinded me from understanding that you made your request out of love for your son. It is... unfortunate that things have turned out this way, but his decisions are not your own: his crimes are not yours to bear in such a way.”

“But they are,” the Duke insists, looking up again to meet her green-eyed gaze, “It was my failure to raise him well which caused this.”

Sylvain’s jaw clenches; he can feel the crick of it, under his ear.

“The Goddess will forgive you,” Archbishop Rhea says with complete certainty, with a demure nod of her head, “It is not a crime to love your son, and to hope that he could be redeemed.“

The duke looks stricken where he stands, when he hears her words. The Archbishop has not spoken of the Goddess’ forgiveness for many moons, since the war began and the Knights of Seiros were displaced from Garreg Mach. For a man as pious as the Duke, with such faith to make him one of the most well known holy knights in the land, to hear such words must affect him greatly.

“The Aegis Shield is a powerful relic,” Archbishop Rhea continues, resting her palm on the center of the shield, where it sits in the duke’s hands, “Its power should not be wasted by placing it in my hands, for no one to use,” She closes her eyes in sorrow, “Garreg Mach is lost, I have no place to rest this shield in a manner that would honour her.”

The duke nods as the Archbishop strokes a hand down the carved face, before she steps back again, folding her hands before her.

“We are in a war, Duke Fraldarius,” the Archbishop states, steel returning to her words, reminding everyone with her tone about what is at stake, “We ought not waste the Goddess’ blessings, when we fight in Her name.”

“Of course,” Duke Fraldarius says faintly, nodding in deference, “You’re right. I just...” he takes a deep breath with a shudder, lowering his arms, and the shield with them, “I need time.”

The Archbishop nods once, eyes set on the relic once more, before she steps back, to return the floor, the space to speak, to the King.

“And... what of Felix?” Dimitri asks, his hesitance disguised by the strength of his voice, prompting the duke to continue his report now that the matter of the Aegis Shield is dealt with, the Church having provided its guidance, its blessing for the Duke to keep the relic in his hands.

Sylvain furrows his brow, forcing his mind to pay full attention, to focus. Here is what he has to know. This is what he wants most to hear.

Ingrid swallows audibly beside him, shifting unconsciously closer to him, pressing against his side.

The duke raises his head, standing tall again, as he shifts to continue his report, “I wounded him, in battle,” he says, in short, clipped statements, “He... retaliated, in turn. The imperials took him away. I do not know if he lives.”

Sylvain clenches Ingrid’s hand tightly.

“Knowing him...” Dimitri muses, “He would refuse to go so easily.”

Sylvain tries to relax, to ease the tension broiling inside him. Dimitri is right, of course. Felix wouldn’t go so easily.

A hysterical thought bubbles forth: Felix had promised he wouldn’t die before Sylvain.

So that means he can’t be dead. The duke had wounded him, but he must have survived. He _must_.

“Your Majesty, I...” the duke falters, then shakes his head, continuing determinedly, “If we are to encounter him in battle again, it would be best to eliminate him.”

Dimitri blinks at him, shocked. “Rodrigue!” he exclaims in audible surprise.

For Sylvain, surprise makes way for dread in a flash. The duke spent over a year pursuing Felix in the hopes he could be returned to Faerghus. For him to say so clearly to his King, before so many witnesses, that the next time Felix is encountered he should be killed...

Something else is coming, his next words are going to be something awful. Wrong. Sylvain can feel it in his bones.

“Felix betrayed us, Your Majesty,” the duke argues, the shake in his voice has been eliminated, he stands tall now, the Shield of Faerghus speaking in place of the man the duke is, words pushed forth with force of will, “He has turned his back on Faerghus, on his people, and his king. He fights for the Emperor, and takes part in the crimes of the Empire of his own free will.”

Sylvain’s breath catches in his throat. An impending sense of doom is setting in. Ingrid is squeezing his hand, but he can barely feel her. The murmur of the crowd around them feels, suddenly, far away.

“Nearly two years ago... I bequeathed to my son our house’s relic, in hopes he would do House Fraldarius proud, and take up our noble mission to defend our people, and to fight for you, Your Majesty. Instead, he has proven he is nothing but a failure, rejected the responsibilities of his position, and brought great shame to myself, as his father, and to the legacy of Kyphon and House Fraldarius.” The duke shakes his head, looking regretful, glaring at the floor, “He is not worthy of the Fraldarius name.”

A chill sets in. Sylvain shivers. His heart is pounding in his chest. Has it always been so loud? There’s a drip of something at his temple. Sweat? It’s cold, why is he sweating?

What does the duke mean with those words?

“With you as my witness, Your Majesty, I would...” the duke Fraldarius pauses for only a brief moment, before he closes his eyes, taking a deep steadying breath before he meets the gaze of his King, “I hereby declare,” he announces, his voice projected, “Felix is no longer a son of Fraldarius.”

Sylvain exhales, shaking his head.

The Duke wouldn’t. Felix hasn’t... he isn’t...

“From this day forth,” Duke Fraldarius proclaims, to all in the room, “I have no son.”

Time stops. The edges of Sylvain’s vision go white, then black, narrowing until all he can see is the Duke, standing resolute in the center of the hall, the King standing before him, nodding once to accept his words, give his blessing as ruler of the Kingdom for the duke’s disownment of his last living son.

He can’t breathe,

Why can’t he breathe?

“Sylvain?” Ingrid asks from somewhere nearby. He can’t locate her. Wasn’t she holding his hand? Which hand was it? His fingers are tingling, his palms are numb. He can’t tell.

“I have to...” he stumbles back, bumps into somebody or something, feeling dizzy, faint, “I need...” he gasps.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid orders - she’s on his left, she’s holding onto his arm, he can’t move it from her grip, “Breathe.”

“I can’t,” he wheezes, yanking his arm free of her grasp, taking steps backwards - there’s a side door on this side of the hall. He needs to get out. People are staring at him, he can’t be in this room anymore, “I have to... I need to go.”

He spins clumsily, shoving someone aside as he looks frantically for the doorway, finds it, and starts making his way towards it.

“Sylvain!” Ingrid calls, concerned. He can hear her footsteps - she’s trying to follow. He can’t let her do that.

“Don’t... Don’t follow me,” Sylvain orders, pointing back at her as he takes one step, then another, “I just... I need to go,”

He hits the doorframe with his shoulder on the way, but makes it out. As soon as he’s outside of the suffocating entrance hall, out of the crowd, he runs.

Someone calls from behind him, but he doesn’t heed them. He doesn’t even know what it is they yell as he goes. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is he has to get away from there.

He runs as fast and far as he can, his boots thumping against the carpeted stone, echoing down the long, open hallways.

Where he goes doesn’t matter. He just needs to go, to get away as fast as he can.

It’s a big castle. There’s a lot of space to run.

**~o.O.o~**

In the depths of Castle Blaiddyd, sequestered in the space between the heart of the castle and the west wing where the guest quarters for esteemed visiting lords and ladies is situated, is a courtyard. An open colonnade cuts through it, and within the courtyard houses a small but dense garden of northern fruit trees and hardy shrubbery, with space and soil for a flourishing collection of flowers, to make the space pop with colour in Faerghus’ short, hot summers.

In the happier stretches of his childhood, back when the four of them, - Dimitri, Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix - and perhaps Glenn as well, had stayed at the castle while their fathers met for matters of governance or war, this courtyard had been akin to a sprawling kingdom within which they could play. Large enough and filled with enough manner of interesting things to keep them entertained for hours, but small enough and close enough to both the heart of the castle and the living quarters of their families such that they could be left unsupervised, assured of the short distance between them and a guardian if anything might go wrong.

In the far corner of the courtyard is a dense collection of woody shrubs, lined up against the walls of the space. From the colonnade it’s impossible to tell, but the way these shrubs had been arranged and grown and trimmed leaves a small empty space between them that none of the plants had managed to fill. As a child, playing hide and seek with his friends, this space had been a favoured hiding spot for Sylvain, and later, Felix, when he’d found Sylvain in it and started challenging him for it in subsequent games, stealing it from him when Sylvain wasn’t fast enough to claim it.

Here is where Ingrid finds Sylvain, after an unknowable number of minutes, hours pass for him in a haze, after his escape from the entrance hall.

It’s almost winter now. The cold has trimmed the foliage of the shrubs and the trees - shrunken the dense growth. The war has done its part as well, to reduce the protective curl of the branches - the priorities of keeping a gardener to maintain the space are far, far below everything else needed to keep the Kingdom on even foot against the Empire. The favoured hiding spot of their shared childhood can barely hope to conceal Sylvain, now, from the searching gaze of a friend who knows of it.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid calls tentatively from somewhere nearby, pulling Sylvain up from the climbing tides of his foggy thoughts.

He shivers. It’s cold. He must have been outside for a while.

When he blinks and looks up, pulling his face up from where he’s been hiding it in his arms, his knees drawn up, he sees her at the edge of the flowerbed, bent over to peek at him over the shorter branches of the shrub that would have concealed him had it kept its summer leaves.

It’s dark - darker than it had been when the Duke returned. The sky had been overcast already, earlier. Now with however many minutes, hours that have passed, the sun behind the clouds must be taking whatever light is left with it down below the horizon.

He can barely make out her form beyond the tangle of the woody branches.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly, her green eyes cautious, concerned.

Sylvain swallows, shaking his head, “...Yeah,” he croaks, his throat feels dry, “I’m... I’m fine.”

His heart is beating steady, his breaths are even, his mind clear enough to think. He’s fine. Fine aside from the persistent ache in his chest, the cold burn of it a vice around his heart. He can work around that. It’s more severe now, but he’s lived with it before. He just has to keep living with it. He sniffs. It’s a wet sound, in the silence.

“...What happened?” Ingrid asks delicately, stepping forth into the frozen mud of the flowerbed, crouching down to look Sylvain in the eye.

“Nothing,” Sylvain waves it off, extending his knees as much as the cradle of shrubbery allows him, feeling the ache of them as he does so, “I just, felt a bit sick. So I left,” he glances down, away, “It’s no big deal.”

Ingrid frowns, “...You made a bit of a commotion, when you left.”

“Oh I did, huh?” Sylvain huffs, with a stilted laugh, “Whoops. Guess I’ll have to apologize to His Majesty about it, huh? Must have messed up whatever he wanted to say.”

If he said anything at all. Sylvain doesn’t remember. If Dimitri said anything after the Duke... after he said _that_ , Sylvain didn’t hear it.

Did he approve of the Duke’s words? Give his blessing as the King? Might he have advised him not to be so hasty, perhaps keep faith that this latest act might have made Felix come to his senses after all, compel him to come home? Or did he say nothing at all, lack the words to say anything either way, and so allow the duke to do whatever it was he wanted, with respect to his last living son?

Or not-son, Sylvain supposes. The duke was hardly ambiguous with his words.

He knows when the words are meant. It’s not the first time he’s witnessed a disownment.

“...You missed dinner,” Ingrid says, quietly, eyes wide, as she continues to watch him.

“Thanks Ingrid,” Sylvain shrugs, “But I’m not hungry.”

He’s hardly had an appetite, the last few days, knowing where the duke had left to, what he was meant to do, who he was going to see. With all this having happened... he doubts it’s going to return anytime soon.

“...You should eat,” Ingrid says, reaching out a hand, palm up for Sylvain to take, “Come on, I saved something for you.”

Sylvain just stares at her. His gaze drops down to her gloved hand. He’s not sure what he’s meant to do with that. He doesn’t feel ready to leave this space. Not quite yet.

Leaving this nook, this hiding place, means that he’ll have to face what happened: face the aftermath of Felix’s abandonment, the Duke’s declaration. It also means Sylvain will have to face his father. If he made enough of a commotion leaving the entrance hall, Margrave Gautier will certainly let him know how embarrassing and shameful it was; make him make up for it, somehow, to save face.

Then there’s Dimitri. He’ll forgive Sylvain his exit, but if they have to get into it, well.

There are certain topics Sylvain knows he shouldn’t bring up with Dimitri, others that he never wants to really discuss with him.

This is both of those.

“You’ll freeze if you stay out here any longer,” Ingrid says, her voice firm, falling into familiar habit, her need to scold to show her worry.

“Ingrid...” Sylvain murmurs, looking down, feeling his mind drift in reminiscence, “Do you remember when we... when we were kids, and we used to play Knights and Dragons, out here in the inner gardens, and... Felix used to cry every time we made him the dragon?”

Ingrid takes a breath to steady herself. Her mouth turns down in a sorrowful motion, her eyes shining in the dark.

“When did he become the dragon for real?”

She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it tightly.

Sylvain gives a watery laugh at the gesture. Even through her gloves, her hand is warm. When he blinks, his vision is blurry, eyes heavy with tears.

“...Come on, Sylvain,” Ingrid says gently, tugging on his arm, “Let’s go inside.”

He lets her tug him out from his little space, and follows as she guides him through the garden, back into the warmth of the castle.

**~o.O.o~**

Ingrid takes him to a small sitting room, secluded and half hidden away from any of the main corridors. Sylvain isn’t sure where exactly it is, having followed her more in a daze than purposefully, letting her drag him along by the hand, but he has a sense it’s a secluded little space.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to eat where you’d be easy to find,” she says, as she ushers him into the space and into a seat in front of the spread of a cooling portion of bread and meat and potato stew set on the table.

“Thanks,” Sylvain murmurs with a half-hearted smile, taking a spoon to dip into the bowl, stirring the film that’s formed overtop as it cooled back into the stew. He appreciates the gesture. Goddess knows he’s not in any mood to be accosted by any of the attendants his father must have keeping an eye out for him, if he’s really so irate about how Sylvain left the entrance hall earlier in the day.

Ingrid nods and takes the seat across from him. She takes the goblet on her side of the table, and downs whatever is inside it, then she reaches down and pulls up a bottle she'd left sitting by the leg of the table, uncorking it and pouring herself more of whatever is inside it it before she fills Sylvain’s own empty goblet.

He huffs. Wine. Given the events of the day, he doesn’t really blame her.

He spoons a mouthful of stew into his mouth, chewing through the tough meat before swallowing it down.

Definitely not a meal to write home about. It’s salty and meaty. That’s about all he can say about it.

Sylvain sighs, managing two more spoonfuls before he releases his hold on the spoon, letting it sit in the bowl. He’s not hungry. It’s not tasty enough for him to make him try harder to finish it.

“How’s...” he coughs, clearing his throat, “How is His Majesty?” he asks.

“...I don’t know,” Ingrid responds, looking down in her glass, “He...” she shakes her head, “I’m sure he’s upset. He and Felix... they used to be close.”

So she hasn’t seen Dimitri then.

Sylvain sniffs, “...Where is Dimitri, anyway?” he asks, neutrally.

It used to be the four of them. Felix might have gone. Left, according to his father.

Dimitri’s still here, though.

He should be _here_.

“... He’s in a meeting with the roundtable,” Ingrid says quietly, explaining, “There was... the Duke has just returned. There’s a lot to discuss, to plan... The lords... they want to move quickly. Duke Fraldarius insisted he have things set in motion to bolster Charon and Galatea’s forces with Fraldarius troops. I don’t think he’ll be free tonight.”

“...Right,” Sylvain mutters, something sour curling in his gut. Disappointment. “Of course.”

“He’s the King, Sylvain,” Ingrid sighs, resigned. It’s a tired explanation, a recycled excuse on behalf of a missing friend.

Sylvain’s lost count of the number of times she’s said that, in response to his wondering where Dimitri’s been, despite being in the same city, the same castle, the same wing within.

“Yeah,” Sylvain grumbles, “I know.”

He knows how busy Dimitri is. How he amplifies his own industriousness by taking on more than he needs to. Still, he’s the King. Doesn’t that come with some sort of power? Authority?

Doesn’t that give him the ability to take time he needs for himself? The authority to separate himself from his duties for some time to speak with his friends outside of the duties and roles they’re all in?

“It’s just... he’s our friend, too, Ingrid,” Sylvain says, frustrated, “I just thought maybe he’d want to take, I don’t know, an hour to just...”

He struggles to find the words. To what? Talk? Reminisce? To be angry together? Just sit and air their frustrations, their grievances about the friend who’s betrayed them? To mourn the loss of a close friend? Weather the storm that is the realization that he’s never coming home, after all?

“Fuck,” he chokes out, instead, his hands fisting on the table.

Ingrid watches him quietly. Her emerald eyes reflect the light of the fireplace to the side, the glow of the embers flicker in the silence. “Well... I’m here, Sylvain,” she murmurs quietly.

Sylvain looks up to meet her gaze.

She reaches out, placing a hand over his fist. “I’m still here.”

He shifts his hand, unclenching it to take hold of her own, across the table. He holds it firmly, for a moment, two.

She squeezes it with assurance.

He manages a brief smile, then lets go, sliding his hand away, reaching for his goblet.

“You got any more wine?” he asks idly, taking a sip, then a gulp of the drink.

He’s going to need more than this. He’s got a lot of sorrows, today. More than he’s had in the last few years. He knows the best thing to drown them with.

“Oh,” Ingrid says, reaching under the table, “I’ve got more than just wine.”

She puts two, then four, then a fifth bottle on the table, the glass clinking against each other. Her favoured wine, a hefty bottle of ale, and two bottles of hard stuff. Expensive bottles, forgotten in the cellars under the castle kitchens, stolen by her deft hand to help them manage this latest blow of war.

Sylvain laughs.

Ingrid has always been the most dependable of the four of them.

They say misery loves company.

Well, with company like this, he can’t hope to disagree.

**~o.O.o~**

Coaxed by Ingrid and the bottle of ale she all but shoves at him, Sylvain manages to finish his meal, not because he’s hungry, but because he knows having something in his stomach will make it less likely for the drink to make him sick. Ingrid looks pleased when he finishes it, even managing to deal with the hard block of bread to the side. He supposes she likes to know her hard work procuring some sort of meal for him after he missed dinner isn’t going to go to waste.

With her around, drinking in silence is all but impossible. Sylvain is accustomed to drinking alone to deal with sorrow. With company, he can’t do the same things, dwell on the same kinds of thoughts.

Ingrid is a chatty drunk. With the drink to sooth the ache, words come easier. It isn’t hard, after all, to talk about better times. To reminisce.

And Ingrid likes to reminisce a lot. As soon as she recalls a memory of a better time, a childhood moment, an incident in school, she’s off, dragging Sylvain along in journey of reminiscence.

At first, Sylvain feels strange to be pulled along for the ride, the ache flaring when she prompts him about memories about Felix, about incidents where Felix was involved, but as time passes, helped by the drink, it becomes easy, fun, even, to remember with her.

“Do you remember,” Ingrid prompts as the hours tick down, the fire dying down to embers barely lighting the room, “That time His Majesty broke Felix’s favourite training sword, back when we were kids?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain snorts into his goblet, “He cried for _hours_. Didn’t know anyone could have so many tears in him.”

Ingrid sighs fondly, with just a touch of melancholy, “He did, didn’t he? How did we ever get him to stop?”

“I broke Dimitri’s lance to make it even.”

“Oh! You did!” she jumps in her seat excitedly at the recollection, “Except you weren’t as strong as him and you--”

“Fell into the bushes while swinging the shaft at the cherry tree in the gardens, yeah.” Sylvain swallows down a mouthful of ale. He remembers the crack of the wood against the sapling’s growing trunk, the way he lost his balance as he followed through on the swing, falling into the bushes. Not the first or only tumble he’d taken, in service of his friends.

“So then,” Ingrid continues, “We spent the next hour looking for something to break it with.”

Sylvain hums, “And then we found that old axe the gardener had left out--”

“Except the head was loose, and when you were readying to chop that wooden lance in half, you pulled the axe back and--”

“It flew right at Glenn! Duke Fraldarius sent him to look for us, and I nearly killed him for it!” Sylvain laughs at the memory. Glenn had dodged it easy, instincts already on their way to being honed, having started training early as a page. Still, the look on his face as the dull metal head flew at him is something Sylvain doesn’t think he’ll forget.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have killed him,” Ingrid says with a wave of her hand, grinning into her cup.

“Well the way we all got lectured after sure felt like I’d really put his life in danger swinging that thing.”

“Well, I don’t think you really did. Anyways, the most danger you ever put Glenn in was that time you knocked a whole bookcase over Felix and he jumped in to save him.”

“That was an accident!” Sylvain cries, leaning forward and covering his face with his hand in remembered despair, “Oh Goddess, I felt so bad after, Felix was inconsolable, and I was so scared Glenn was going to tell our parents...”

Ingrid snickers, “Felix was so upset because he was convinced Glenn would have died, and it set his Majesty off too.”

“You say that like you didn’t start crying too,” Sylvain retorts, pointing at her with his goblet.

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ingrid responds, her face flushed darker with embarrassment, the glow of drink setting in, “I was very composed when that happened.”

“Oh, sure,” Sylvain snarks, “Like you weren’t absolutely _devastated_ that Glenn was so disappointed in us for horseing around in the library.”

“You were the one climbing the shelves!”

“Well, they weren’t supposed to fall over!”

They break into giggles, laughter at the expense of their younger selves. Sylvain settles back in his chair. He feels warm, giddy. Absently he realizes he still feels an echo of ache, sorrow deep inside, but it’s masked, for now. Bearable. “...Did they ever replace that wobbly shelf, you think?” he wonders, looking up at the ceiling.

Ingrid sighs, resting her arms on the table, “Who knows,” she responds with a shrug.

They lapse into silence, lingering on the echo of remembrance of a scare: the crash of books, the lunge of a protective older brother, dashing under the shelf to hold it up like a hero holding up the sky, keeping the weight from crushing his little brother and his foolhardy friends. The fire cracks, the last of its embers making itself known.

Sylvain’s fond grin falters.

In the silence, a mad giddy thought springs forth, just ahead of the weight of angst being kept at bay in his mind.

“Hey,” Sylvain says suddenly, twisting in his chair to look Ingrid in the eye across the table, ”Wanna find out?”

**~o.O.o~**

An investigation of the library finds more than one wobbly shelf. Ingrid laughs at him as Sylvain wanders the shelves, shaking them to see if they wobble, reading the spines of the books, trying to remember if they’re the same books in his memory that had fallen in the scare so many years ago.

A trip to the library sparks new memories to reminisce on, and new urges to find old familiar childhood spots. They tow the bottles they haven’t finished with them, the goblets forgotten in the room, wandering the halls, leaning against each other as they point out old hiding spots, scars in the furnishings from old childhood games, forgotten rooms they’d used to claim as their own to play in.

The halls are quiet, the torches lit but burning low. Castle Blaiddyd tends to hunker down, after dark. Once dinner concludes, the castle all but falls into hibernation, leaving the residents to fend mostly for themselves in the name of practicality to give most of the castle staff time to prepare for the next day, save for the patrol of soldiers and guards to keep the peace.

It’s a boon, for Sylvain and Ingrid. It means their drunken wandering won’t be witnessed by many.

They can have this ritual in peace.

Ingrid tires as they walk. She’s been drinking out of the bottle, since they left the room, and she’s never been good at moderating her intake. She doesn’t drink frequently. Eventually, Sylvain has to catch her enough times that he just keeps her tucked by his side, letting her lean against him to walk steadily.

It means he’s drinking less, but he finds he doesn’t mind. Her company is enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay, the reminiscence they share together more than enough to keep him from dwelling on what he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t need the drink so much, and Ingrid needs him to keep her upright. It won’t do if he can’t stay upright either.

Eventually, they end up by an inner courtyard which houses a small private training pit, surrounded by racks of well-maintained practice weapons. It’s dark and still, the flutter of snowflakes falling from the sky to the earth silently.

It’s a familiar place. Dimitri had received his earliest lessons with the lance here. All of them, as noble children who were close friends of the future king were welcomed here to practice with wooden weapons, to learn the early foundations for the art of combat and war. Here is where Dimitri invited Sylvain to meet his friends for the first time. Where Glenn used to demonstrate his fancy impractical lance tricks and pretend they were necessary to be real knight material.

In recent times, Sylvain still spars with Ingrid here. Early in the war, Dimitri used to join them. His visits to this private ground have dwindled, as the war went on. If he visits still to practice his forms, maintain his technique, he never does it when either of them are present.

It’s here where Ingrid’s buoy of happy reminiscence fails her, after they’ve seated themselves on the stone step surrounding the training pit, their bottles set down on the floor beside them.

“I just... I don’t understand,” Ingrid says, her tears held back by her frustration, her legs drawn up to her chest, her last bottle of wine clutched in her hand, “How could he do that? Cut off the arm of his own father?”

Sylvain sighs unhappily, “Duke Fraldarius said he struck first,” he responds, tapping his hand against the half-full bottle of ale in his hand, “Felix probably just reacted. You know how quick he is with a sword.”

Ingrid sniffs wetly.

“They put his arm back together anyway,” Sylvain continues with a shrug, “So.”

“Sylvain!” Ingrid cries, aghast at his flippancy, reaching out to smack ineffectually at his arm.

“Well what else is Felix going to do,” Sylvain retorts with a sharp gesture of his arm, “Just let his father kill him in battle? We’re at war, Ingrid.”

“He should never have betrayed us!” Ingrid cries out, airing the obvious, letting the words ring out in the dark, “Besides, His Grace wouldn’t have killed him--”

“Oh come on, Ingrid,” Sylvain snaps derisively, angry, suddenly, at the words when he knows full well what might have happened, “You heard him. He doesn’t even know if Felix is alive.”

Ingrid falters, cowed by the possibility of what Sylvain is saying, based on what the Duke refused to say, earlier in the day, “... I just...” she trails off.

Sylvain sighs, swallowing back his anger. It’s not Ingrid he’s angry at. He can’t be angry at her, not when she’s weepy and drunk.

“None of this should have happened,” she whispers quietly.

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees. There’s not much else he can say to that.

So much shouldn’t have happened. Felix should never have left Faerghus. The Empire should never have declared war on the rest of Fodlan. It can go back further too. Glenn’s funeral. The Tragedy. The plague.

Ingrid slumps down, leaning against Sylvain’s shoulder. He shifts to make it more comfortable for her, shuffling closer so she doesn’t have to lean so far to reach his form, “I should have seen this coming,” she murmurs.

Sylvain aches. “Ingrid,” he admonishes. This isn’t on her. She worries about all of them, playing the role of the responsible one when Glenn left them too soon. It means she feels she should take responsibility for them too.

She shouldn’t. Their mistakes are never hers to own. She has a hard time with that. Sylvain knows better than anyone.

“Back at the academy,” she says mournfully, “I should have seen it, the signs were all there.”

Sylvain keeps quiet.

“Felix was so _angry_ , all the time,” Ingrid laments, “And he was always speaking so ill of His Majesty; all those insults, the fights.... To think he hated His Majesty so much...”

“He didn’t hate Dimitri,” Sylvain corrects her, shaking his head. Felix may have shown his annoyance, spoke snidely at Dimitri, criticized him, and refused to engage with him when he didn’t have to. But he never really hated him, Sylvain doesn’t think. If he did, he’d never have been so watchful, from a distance. Even from a different class, he kept tabs on Dimitri.

He wouldn't have done that if he didn't truly care, in his own way.

“Of course he did!” Ingrid argues, her words flying out in an outburst, “Ever since Glenn died saving His Majesty’s life in Duscur... Felix hated him for something that wasn’t his fault. He never understood why Glenn did what he did, and now he’s let that drive him away from us. From Faerghus.”

“That’s not...” Sylvain bites back his words. What else can he say? Dimitri surviving the tragedy that killed Felix’s brother wasn’t the reason Felix distanced himself from Dimitri. Sylvain knows that. But what does he know, after all? He thought he knew Felix, and Felix left Faerghus. “It wasn’t just Glenn,” he says quietly, the only thing he’s sure of.

“But Glenn was the start,” Ingrid sniffs, bringing her bottle to her mouth. It’s empty, so she sighs instead, dropping her arm, letting the bottle clink gently against the floor.

Sylvain looks down.

Well she’s right about that. Glenn was probably the start of it all. The start of the rift between Felix and Faerghus. That’s when his starry-eyed view of knighthood and chivalry fell to pieces and never came together again.

Maybe it wasn’t ever about Dimitri at all.

Maybe Felix’s ire was really with Faerghus, and Dimitri was just the figurehead-to-be standing in plain view.

“I should have tried harder to reach him, set him straight,” Ingrid says stubbornly, self-admonishingly, “Maybe if I tried to speak with him more, to remind him to... to do the right thing, to listen to His Majesty, and to remember his friendships, his responsibilities...”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sylvain argues, before she can get too fixated on the idea, get it in her head that it could be her fault in any way, “I mean, _I_ didn’t and Felix and I are--”

 _Were_.

Sylvain chokes on his words.

He and Felix _were_ best friends.

What are they now?

He swallows, “If anything,” he murmurs, leaning back against Ingrid, “ _I_ should have known.”

Ingrid looks up at him, reaching across to hold his hand, “We should have talked him out of switching out of the Blue Lions,” she whispers.

Sylvain huffs, taking her hand in his own, gripping it tight.

“Ashe and Mercedes too,” she continues, “We should have tried to keep them with us.”

Sylvain takes a steadying breath, fighting back the well of sadness, the dizzying thought of could-have-beens, if the Blue Lions had never fragmented. If they’d stuck together through the year. “It was their choice, Ingrid,” he says, gently, “It wouldn’t have been right to keep them from doing it. It was just class at the academy for the year. Not like we’d know there would be a war at the end of it.”

It was supposed to be just class. It’s why Sylvain himself turned it down so easily, the opportunity to switch.

It was just class.

If they’d known what would come by year’s end, none of them would have switched classes.

Right?

“And now look,” Ingrid says harshly, “They’re all on the wrong side.”

“Annette came back,” Sylvain reminds her, “Not everyone who joined the Black Eagle class joined the Empire. Leonie, Lysithea, Flayn... all of them were with us during the battle at Garreg Mach.”

Ingrid sniffles, shaking her head, unwilling to think on what that means, for the others who didn’t come back, “Still,” she whispers.

Sylvain sighs, “I don’t think Felix could have been stopped from joining the Black Eagles anyway. He’s always been so obsessed with improving swordplay, even more so after...” he takes a breath, “After Glenn died. The minute the professor showed up and he saw her in action... He was going to do anything to join her class.”

“...The professor...” Ingrid murmurs.

Sylvain looks over at her. She’s looking blankly into the distance, across the empty training pit, at the wall on the other side.

He doesn’t know what she’s seeing, in her mind’s eye.

“If only she had chosen our class.”

“...Yeah," Sylvain agrees.

What would the year have been like, had the Professor chosen the Blue Lions instead? Would the Blue Lions have stuck together through the year? Would other students have joined them instead?

Would Edelgard still have declared her war?

Ingrid sits up, pulling her hand out of his, waving her arm sharply through the air, “This would never have happened if Glenn were here.”

Sylvain bites his tongue. Speaking fondly of Glenn in the past is one thing. Speaking about him and what things would have been like if he had survived... it’s always felt strange to Sylvain. Uncomfortable.

Felix used to close up like a bear trap whenever that happened. It’d make him irritable, angry, colder than any frigid Srengi winter.

Maybe his discomfort has bled into Sylvain, over the years.

“Glenn wouldn’t have let Felix leave us,” Ingrid declares, rambling in the silence, the winter cold, “He would have stopped him, made him see _sense_ , and Felix would be _here_ , in Fhirdiad, working with us to stop the Empire from hurting so many people.”

She’s right. If Glenn had survived, Felix would never have left. He’d be here.

But it’s pointless to dwell on that, because Glenn didn’t.

So what use is it thinking about what could have been if he did?

“I just miss him, Sylvain,” she weeps, collapsing against his shoulder, turning her head to bury her face against it, “I miss him so _much_.”

Sylvain wraps an arm around her, tugging her close, letting her curl up against his side and cry with great heaving sobs. He rubs her shoulder, absently, as he looks out over the little outdoor sparring ring, slowly being buried under a thin blanket of drifting snowflakes.

Whichever Fraldarius Ingrid means, he doesn’t ask. Both of them have left a gaping hole in the lives of everyone around them.

In the end, she doesn’t tell him either.

**~o.O.o~**

Crying exhausts Ingrid utterly. Sylvain has to set their bottles aside, coax her to her feet and take her back to her room as she drowses against him. He doesn’t remember where the quarters of the Kingsguard are or where she’s placed in the castle since she became an official knight in service, so he takes her to her old room, where she used to stay when she visited as a guest of the prince.

He has to carry her the last of the distance there, dropping her on the bed and tucking her in, still fully dressed. She’s all but dead to the world by then, pulled into sleep by her sorrows and her copious drinking over the course of the night.

She’ll be miserable in the morning, Sylvain thinks, as he tugs the blankets up to keep her warm, brushes her hair from her eyes. He hopes her duties don’t start early, if she doesn’t have tomorrow off as well.

He doesn’t dwell; leaving quickly, mindful of speculation and castle gossip by potential witnesses if he stays in her room too long. His own buzz of alcohol is going down, having drank less, concentrating more on keeping Ingrid upright and supported rather than indulging in his own bottles as the night went on. He ought to clean up the bottles they left at the training ground, maybe even the sitting room they were in before they started wandering the castle. It wouldn’t do for them to leave their mess out like that, especially the alcohol bottles in the open.

In the end, his worry is for naught. Somebody has stumbled on their unfinished bottles before he could get to them, after all, and he’s bent over, half in the act of cleaning up their mess for them.

Sylvain nearly stumbles in his approach, feeling belated embarrassment at the evidence of Ingrid and his indulgence left for anyone to find by the private training ground of the royal family, especially by somebody who _definitely_ shouldn’t be cleaning up after them like this, at their age.

“Ah, Duke Fraldarius!” Sylvain exclaims as he rushes over, reaching to take the bottles before the older man can.

“Ah, Sylvain,” the duke says, straightening as Sylvain fusses over the bottles, setting the unopened bottles aside, grabbing the empty ones away. The man looks exhausted, worn, no longer in his armour, back in his customary outfit as a noble in his position, “Pardon me, I was just...”

“Oh, Your Grace, please,” Sylvain says, embarrassed, reaching for the bottle in the duke’s left hand, “There’s no need. I was just on my way back from putting Ingrid to bed.”

“Is she alright?” the duke asks politely, as Sylvain finishes fussing with the bottles, grabbing two in each hand by the necks.

“She had a bit much to drink, so I had to help her along,” Sylvain explains, “We were, uh,” he winces, unsure of how much he should share, unwilling to make the duke any more upset than he might be after the events of the last day, week, maybe even year, “...Reminiscing.”

There’s a beat, as something like melancholy settles in the duke’s gaze. A weight falling in place, “About Felix,” he says quietly, in understanding.

“Er...” Sylvain stammers, “That is.”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings, Sylvain,” Rodrigue says gently, turning away to look over the blanket of snow over the training pit, “I know you and my son were... close. The news today must have been quite a shock.”

Sylvain looks down. He doesn’t mention the duke’s usage of the word ‘son’. Seems like it’d be beyond rude to mention what he’d already announced today.

“Well, in any case,” the duke sighs, “If you are taking responsibility for these, then I should--”

“Actually, I wasn’t done,” Sylvain says quickly, before he can stop himself, “I er, was going to sit a little longer. I haven’t... drunk my fill. Yet.”

The duke stares at him, blinking benignly in the dark, unsure of what to say in response.

“Did you...” Sylvain pauses, then starts over, his mind whirling in a storm of rash thoughts, perhaps still addled by drink, “If you wanted, you could join me?”

Rodrigue’s glaze flickers down to the bottles in Sylvain’s hand, then back up to his face.

“You just... look like you need a drink, yourself,” Sylvain explains, with an awkward shrug and a tilt of his head, “And Ingrid overdid herself on the wine, so I still have two bottles left of the harder stuff, and drinking it alone probably isn’t a good idea. So.”

“I... well,” the duke says haltingly, “If you don’t mind the company.”

“Of course not,” Sylvain assures him, gesturing for the other man to take a seat on the floor, then taking a seat beside him, “I think we could all use a drink in these times, and... well, probably best not to drink alone if you can avoid it.”

“Yes,” Rodrigue says in a daze, taking a seat on the step down to the training grounds, “That’s... very reasonable of you.”

“We, uh, left the cups back in one of the sitting rooms,” Sylvain explains, handing over a bottle to the duke. It’s one of the bottles of harder liquor. He honestly doesn’t remember what he has left in his hands, only that Ingrid finished the wine, “If you don’t mind drinking from the bottle--”

The duke takes it and with a deft twist of his left hand, uncaps it, then downs a mouthful of the drink in a fluid motion with hardly a flinch at the taste.

“Oh, okay,” Sylvain says dumbly as he stares, setting the empty bottles aside to hold his own half-full bottle of drink.

Sylvain watches the duke sit and drink for a long moment. He takes a few sips of his own drink, but finds he can’t find the will to keep subjecting himself to it, now while he has the Shield of Faerghus drinking from the bottle next to him.

Besides, he can’t be too drunk if he wants to take the opportunity to speak with the duke.

He has things he wants to ask, and he’ll never get an opportunity like this again, what with the cogs of war and the schedule all the high lords keep while the conflict rages on.

“I... uh,” he says awkwardly, unsure of how best to broach the subject, how to start a conversation with the father of his once best friend.

“Yes, Sylvain?” Rodrigue responds eventually, looking over at him from where he’s seated.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says quickly, deference trained into him from a young age to respect elder nobles, especially those of his father's generation, “I don’t want to upset you.”

“...You have questions,” the duke says, knowingly.

Sylvain takes a breath and nods, “I do, but, you’ve been through a lot and I can’t imagine what you must be feeling... about Felix and... I just,” he blows out a sigh, “I don’t want to make it worse.”

The duke shakes his head, setting his bottle aside to his left. He’s polished half of it off already, in such a short time, “You should ask your questions. In fact, I have a few of my own, for you. If you’re willing to indulge an old man in his reminiscence.”

“I... yes,” Sylvain nods, trying not to sound too eager, “Yes, of course.”

He has so many questions he wants answers to, about what happened in Charon, what happened with Felix.

Questions like: How was he? How did he look? Was he well?

Questions he can’t ask outright like that, lest he sound like he might care more about an enemy combatant in war, rather than the wellbeing of Faerghus and her people.

“What...” Sylvain struggles with words, “What happened in Charon?”

The duke looks away, heaving a great sigh, filled with sorrow, “...Felix was there. He was fighting our troops. I... I’ve never seen him fight like that before. With such...” he trails off.

 _'Hunger? '_ Sylvain wonders, _'Enthusiasm? Determination?'_

“Ferocity,” the duke says quietly, breathing out the word with something like awe.

Sylvain swallows.

“I engaged him in battle,” the duke recounts, “Even on a horse, I found it difficult to close the distance, to strike him with my lance. When there came a lull in the battle, I tried to speak with him.”

“Did he... listen?” Sylvain asks, in trepidation at what the answer might be.

Was Felix so far gone, siding with the Empire’s ideals that he wouldn’t even have stopped to talk to his father, when the chance was offered?

“He did, at first,” the duke nods, in response, “I told him to come home, I... pleaded with him to listen, I told him His Majesty would forgive his mistakes.”

Sylvain winces.

Forgiveness on the king’s behalf is not the duke’s to give.

Besides that... Dimitri... Sylvain can’t say for sure what Dimitri’s thoughts on forgiveness would be. Sometimes he murmurs, and Sylvain hears it. He always mutters about revenge, retribution. Forgiveness is not in Faerghus’ nature. Dimitri, as King, understands that better than anyone.

“For a brief moment...” the duke continues, “I thought I could reach him. He had me at his mercy, he could have killed me,” he turns to face Sylvain, eyes intense, beseeching Sylvain to understand, “But he didn’t, Sylvain, he spared my life."

Felix spared his father’s life.

That means something.

Sylvain doesn’t know what, yet, but it means something. Something good. He clings to it.

“I don’t remember what I said, to cause him to close off,” Rodrigue says, glancing down, “I was so _angry_ , Sylvain,” he sounds lost, eyes glazed over in remembrance, mouth turned down in something like regret, “He was turning his back on me, on Faerghus, spitting in the face of everything I’ve ever tried to teach him and I...” he falters, looking suddenly, guilty.

Sylvain frowns at his expression. Wary of what he’ll say next.

“I stabbed him with my lance, and when he swung his sword in response, the blade severed my arm.”

Sylvain’s gaze flickers down to Rodrigue’s injured arm. Still heavily bandaged, white magic woven into the wrappings, it tremors, occasionally, the fingers half flexed. Sylvain hasn’t seen him use it, at all, since he attempted to pass the Aegis Shield to Lady Rhea, in a formal, unsteady two handed grip. Everything he’s held, the bottle he’s holding, it’s all been left handed.

“How did he escape?”

Felix was wounded. Rodrigue was as well, but the duke has a battalion at his disposal. The opportunity would have been there, for them to step forth, bring Felix home.

So why didn’t they?

“There were two imperial generals who came to his aid,” the duke responds, shaking his head, “I didn’t recognize them at the time, and I must admit I did not get a close look, but... I think the second may have been familiar... I’m uncertain but... I may have seen them, in the past, accompanying Count Rowe.”

Someone who followed Count Rowe? Sylvain frowns. He doesn’t remember anyone from the Officer’s Academy having been from House Rowe.

Ashe, maybe? But he’d been affiliated more with Castle Gaspard, even though that was under Rowe’s jurisdiction, the duke would have specified. Right?

“If the second man was related to Count Rowe in the past,” the duke continues, as Sylvain ponders it, “It doesn’t bode well, to see another traitor to Faerghus on the enemy side.”

Sylvain hums. The duke is right, of course. More traitors means the Empire has more information about Faerghus, her inner machinations. They’ve been struggling with that for a while, knowing how much Felix could give the Empire, merely by being the only son of the Kingdom’s highest ranked noble house.

“Sylvain,” the duke says, pulling him from his thoughts, “I’ve... always wanted to know, but I could never find the time to ask...”

He turns to meet the duke’s gaze. The man looks determined, looking for his own answers with this opportunity to talk.

“What... happened at the Officers’ Academy?” the duke asks, “I’ve heard from His Majesty, and of course, Lady Rhea and Seteth and Gilbert as well, but... I realize, I’ve never asked any of you; his classmates.”

“There’s...” Sylvain breathes out a sigh. Where does he even start? “A lot happened that year, sir. You might have to... specify what you want to know.”

“Felix... nothing had seemed out of the ordinary, when I called Felix home, during the Guardian moon of his academy year,” the duke recalls, shifting his weight, “The moon I entrusted the Aegis Shield to him, after he protected our people in Fraldarius. And yet, not two moons later... he joined the Empire and attacked Garreg Mach on the Emperor’s behalf. His last letter told me nothing out of the ordinary, and then I never heard from him again.”

Nobody had. Sylvain bites his lip. Felix had never reached out to anyone, after.

“What happened in that time?”

“I...” Sylvain starts, then stops, trying to decide what to say first, what the duke might want to know.

The duke waits patiently, watching as Sylvain organizes his thoughts, setting his bottle aside. He’s hardly drank any of what’s left in it, since he invited the duke to sit.

“To be honest, Felix was... uneasy, during the moon leading up to the.. the Holy Tomb,” Sylvain responds, raising a hand to run through his hair nervously, “I told him things would be fine, since they were just going to witness the revelation Lady Rhea told them the Professor would receive. Nothing was supposed to happen in there, besides that.”

“The professor... Byleth?” Rodrigue asks, to clarify, “She was to receive a revelation from the Goddess?”

“Yeah, Felix said the archbishop was making a big deal of it at the time. I...” Sylvain frowns, dropping his hand, “Didn’t she mention it?”

The duke’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t elaborate, “...Continue,” he says, in a low tone.

Sylvain catalogues the thought. The archbishop had never told the high lords about why the Black Eagles were in the Holy Tomb? It seems like an important detail to omit.

“Er, well,” Sylvain continues, “The night before, Felix told me he had a bad feeling about what was going to happen in there. It... really didn’t seem like he knew what was going to happen, with Edelgard, and everything. I thought he was just anxious, so I tried to reassure him.”

The duke hums, thoughtfully.

“I told him he’d be fine,” Sylvain shrugs, “What was going to happen down there anyway? It’s just a bunch of dusty old graves. Anyway... famous last words, right?”

“So... it didn’t... he didn’t know about the Emperor’s plans?”

“I don’t think so, not at the time. I mean, that’s just my gut feeling, but... you know. How reliable is that, huh?”

The duke doesn’t respond to that, only nodding thoughtfully, his eyes sharp.

“None of us know what really happened in the Holy Tomb itself,” Sylvain says, with a sigh, “Lady Rhea was there, but I’m not sure how much of her account is...” he frowns, unsure how to put it delicately, “I don’t want to say what she says is unreliable, but we’ve all seen her lose her cool every time she talks about it.”

Rodrigue nods, but wisely doesn’t comment. Speaking ill of, or questioning the archbishop seems like a faux pas that’s not in his lexicon of behaviour. Doing so while the Knights of Seiros have made their home in Castle Blaiddyd would likely make it an exercise in foolishness, on top of the lack of courtesy.

“Actually, Annette was there,” Sylvain says offhand, “She might be somebody you can talk to about it, if you want to know the details.”

“Yes... I’ll... be sure to see if I can speak with her,” the duke murmurs, considering.

Sylvain hopes he doesn’t bring Gilbert to that interview. It was hard enough, seeing the aftermath of the knights questioning Annette the first time, subjecting her to silent judgement after, as if she’d known that joining the Black Eagle class would mean Edelgard would have considered her an ally in the war nobody knew was coming. They hadn’t punished her - they couldn’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong besides join the wrong class in school.

They’d wanted to though. Sylvain could tell.

Gilbert being her father hadn’t spared her any grief, even after she’d given the knights everything she’d known.

As far as Sylvain knows, she’s all but locked away in the home of Baron Dominic, as if he’s scared she’ll walk away one day. That she’ll up and leave Faerghus after all, even after Annette made the choice to turn her back on Edelgard and her cause by coming home.

“After that...” Sylvain continues, “We know the professor and the rest of the Black Eagles were warped out of the holy tomb by Edelgard and her retainer. After that, she let the students who refused to fight on her side to leave and return to Garreg Mach, so some of them did, they came back.”

“But not Felix,” Rodrigue says quietly.

Sylvain looks away, “...but not Felix,” he echoes.

The silence after is empty, full of questions none of them have the answer to.

“Did he say anything about... his reasons,” Sylvain says, haltingly, trying to find the answers anyway, from the man who saw Felix most recently, “When you.. in Charon...?”

Rodrigue grits his teeth, the fist of his left hand clenches, his right just shakes, “He said it was his choice,” he says gravely, “He said... he wouldn’t let a shield define his future, and he would not serve His Majesty. He said he was fighting for a future where people weren’t beholden to the choices of their ancestors, where Crests wouldn’t define a person’s worth: all things from the Emperor’s manifesto. Just echoing her propaganda, all of it.”

Sylvain bites his lip. It doesn’t sound terrible, what Felix is fighting for, if what the duke says is true, if he’s recounted it correctly.

It could sound like Felix.

But Sylvain doesn’t know if he can trust that. The duke’s memory is fallible, and he clearly doesn’t understand himself why Felix did what he did. Besides, even if what he said is true... the cost to see that happen...

Isn’t it too much to ask the world to pay to see something like that happen? How does Felix even know if the Emperor truly wants to see that happen at the end of her destructive war?

“I don’t understand why,” the duke murmurs, “but he said... he said he was doing it for Glenn.”

Sylvain blinks in mute surprise, “For Glenn?”

“It doesn’t make any sense, all this killing,” Rodrigue shakes his head in despair, “How could he justify it to be in Glenn’s name? Glenn would never have stood for this. I just... I don’t... How could the Empire have warped his mind so much, to even utter such a thing?”

How indeed? Sylvain frowns. What was it that Ingrid said?

_‘Glenn was the start.’_

If they want to parse out the reason for Felix’s defection... maybe they should start at the beginning.

“Felix... hated the way Glenn died,” Sylvain says quietly. A prompt, to recount from the start.

“...Yes. He’s...” the duke shakes his head, raising his left hand to his face, “We argued frequently about it. But...” he sighs, a great heaving release of the breath from within, “Glenn died protecting His Majesty, as a knight of his royal guard. It was an honourable death. If he had died of illness, or if he had died after abandoning his duty-”

“I think Felix would have preferred Glenn to never have died at all,” Sylvain interrupts, feeling a flare of annoyance, ire rising on Felix’s behalf.

“Of course,” the duke says, looking taken aback, chagrined, “That... I never meant that Glenn had to die. I simply...” he sighs again, “Being a knight meant so much to Glenn; every part of knighthood, he loved. He had never been happier than when he was in the service. He never would have forgiven himself if... he had fled his duty and lived, and His Majesty had died in his stead. I fear Felix never truly understood that.”

Sylvain hums, leaning back, pulling his hands back behind him to keep him upright, “...It’s weird,” he muses, “Glenn was always such a... great figure to us. Bigger, taller, stronger than we’d ever be, and now we’re all... older than he’ll ever be.”

Rodrigue huffs, “You all are, aren’t you. Even...” he stutters, “Even Felix, now.”

“...Yeah,” Sylvain murmurs. How old had Glenn been, when the tragedy took him too soon? Eighteen, almost nineteen?

They’ve all outgrown him.

Even Felix, the youngest of their cohort, will soon be twenty by the year’s end.

How quickly time passes by.

“Glenn... I was always so proud of him, for everything he accomplished,” the duke reminisces, “He was the youngest knight to ever be employed in His Majesty’s service, you know.”

Sylvain knows. It’s been a fact parroted endlessly between the noble houses, with how frequently Rodrigue bragged of the accomplishments of his eldest, “How old was he again,” Sylvain asks, just to humour him, “When he was knighted? I don’t remember.”

“Fifteen years,” Rodrigue murmurs, voice filled with pride, even after Glenn’s death after all these years, “He soaked up all his learning like a sponge, and combat came to him so naturally. It was always a marvel watching him figure a combat art out, how quickly he could turn it against his challengers. I taught him all I could, and when that wasn’t enough, he sought out as much as he could from everyone else around him. Glenn did it all, beating taller, tougher squires, and matching trained knights.”

Sylvain watches him as he looks down, closing his eyes in sorrow, the ache of the death of his eldest returning with the remembrance.

“...We lost so much when he passed,” the duke murmurs quietly, in the silence.

“Why did...” Sylvain starts, leaning forward, then pauses, unsure if he should ask.

The duke turns to him in question, nodding his head for Sylvain to continue.

“I always wondered,” Sylvain says cautiously, “Glenn did so much so young, and Felix had the same enthusiasm as him for training and combat. Maybe he wasn’t as quick, but he was always so determined. Why did you... you never pushed Felix to knighthood with the same encouragement. You never let him start as early as Glenn did. I always wondered why.”

The duke hums, tilting his head, “Felix was... sensitive. You know, he used to cry at the drop of a hat.”

“Yeah, but that’s not something that keeps you from being good knight,” Sylvain argues, “He would have grown out of it. He _did_ grow out of it. He could beat Dimitri in spars, and he always gave me a run for my money, even though I was bigger than him. I mean, once we were at the academy his combat score blew pretty much every other student’s out of the water, almost from the start of the year! He definitely showed the potential at the same age Glenn became a page.”

“Felix wasn’t going to be a knight,” the Rodrigue says, simply, matter of fact, “Not like Glenn.”

Sylvain frowns. That seems harsh, to just say it like that. Unfair. “Why not?”

“Because he was going to inherit the duchy.”

Sylvain’s mouth falls open. Felix couldn’t be a knight because he was going to _inherit the duchy_? That doesn’t make any sense at all. “What?” he asks, dumbly, “I thought... Glenn...”

“...Sylvain,” the duke says patiently, as if what he’s said isn’t completely out of nowhere, a statement so divorced from the reality Sylvain thought he knew, “Becoming a knight of the Kingsguard is often a lifelong service. The heir to a noble house... can’t take on that responsibility on top of the duties of their house.”

“But weren’t... _you_ a knight... at some point?” Sylvain sputters, “I mean... you’re the Shield of Faerghus!”

“Yes, I suppose... but not in the same capacity as what Glenn became. My title, I received as the Duke Fraldarius,” Rodrigue says tiredly, “I... King Lambert and I... we were close friends. In battle, we often fought side by side. I fought at his back, and did my duty to protect him as a Duke, and as his friend. My oath of fealty was that of a Duke to his King, not that of a royal knight.”

Sylvain shakes his head, mind running a mile a minute, whirling with what he’s being told, “Then... why _did_ Glenn become a knight of the Kingsguard? He... Shouldn’t he have been preparing to become the next duke, after you?”

Rodrigue simply blinks at him. A weight seems to fall on the older man, his shoulders slumping, a deep seated sorrow falling into place.

A sign of an old ache.

Sylvain doesn’t understand..

“Glenn was so... he was exceptional,” he continues, rambling when the duke doesn’t explain, his mind unable to put the facts he’s learned in a way that makes sense, “I mean, sometimes he was kind of mean, but... he was talented, and hard-working, and smart. He would have been a great Duke Fraldarius. He was always praised for being brilliant, I thought... The way you talked about him, the way _everyone_ talked about him, I thought it was all but set in stone!”

Rodrigue looks away. For a long moment, all he does is sit there, staring at the wall across the training grounds, his left hand closing around the neck of his bottle, bringing it forth to rest between his legs. Eventually, he finds the words, and speaks, “...I suppose... we’d never formally announced it, the line of succession for Fraldarius. With everything going on in Faerghus... well.”

“Announced... what?” Sylvain asks, with growing apprehension. What could House Fraldarius have forgotten to declare about Glenn, that would have made him a better knight than a duke, given his prodigal ability, his skills, his talents?

Rodrigue meets his eyes. The older man looks lost, woeful. “Glenn didn’t have a crest, Sylvain.”

Sylvain blinks in disbelief, “...What?” he asks. It doesn’t make sense, what the Duke is saying. Surely, it would have been known, that Glenn was crestless? That’s not something well-hidden in Faerghus, especially in a house with as much power as Fraldarius.

Gautier would have known. His father _must_ have known, and he would not have made a secret of it, especially with Miklan being a crestless shame. Every opportunity would have been made to scold Miklan for being useless on top of crestless, especially knowing that another noble house had a crestless son that still managed to contribute to his house’s reputation.

And yet, somehow, it had never been said; or if it had, Sylvain had never remembered it.

“I confess, the reason we never formally declared...” Rodrigue sighs, his words pulling Sylvain back to the present, away from his thoughts, from chasing memories, “Well, we were hoping, thinking, perhaps it would appear late - my own took time to appear - but year by year, it never did.”

A pit opens in Sylvain’s gut when he realizes what came next, as House Fraldarius waited and hoped for a crest to appear in the duke’s oldest son. “And then,” he says faintly, “Felix...”

Rodrigue nods, solemn, “Manifested a major crest,” he says, “The first in our house in a century.”

The words shake in his throat, worn with the weight of what it means for a major crest to appear, when so, so few have, across any of the noble bloodlines in the land, for so many decades.

Sylvain looks away.

“After that...” Rodrigue sighs, resting his elbows on his knees, hunching over where he sits on the steps, “Even if Glenn manifested a crest, in all likelihood, it would have been minor. In the end, he never manifested a crest at all, so it didn’t matter, as far as succession was concerned,” he takes a mouthful of drink from his bottle, swallowing it down with barely a grimace, “After that, with the Sreng campaign and negotiations with Duscur... Felix’s crest being what it was... I believed it went without saying.”

Sylvain just blinks in disbelief. To the lords of each house, perhaps it went without saying, but to their children - their heirs... Glenn had always been the responsible one, the leader, the one they all went to for guidance and answers. It just seemed to make sense that one day he would lead the duchy as well. Nobody ever said he never would.

Sylvain gives a shaky laugh of incredulity. ‘Going without saying’ appears to have been Rodrigue Fraldarius’ approach to many things. Felix had a major crest, so there was no need to say anything about Glenn’s lack of a one. Felix had a crest and Glenn didn’t, so there wasn’t any need to say anything about inheritance.

Sylvain supposes the methodology was good in some ways, for those around the duke. Felix had certainly never been raised to think too hard about his crest - perhaps because Rodrigue never emphasized in words the importance of it. Glenn had never appeared to be burdened by his knowledge that he lacked one - again, perhaps Rodrigue never felt the need to tell him he ought to be troubled by that lack.

Of course, Sylvain also knows that approach has terrible pitfalls.

There’s a reason Felix couldn’t bear to speak with his father, for so many years after Glenn had passed away.

Rodrigue mistakes Sylvain’s silence for confusion, “I imagine you know how things work in Faerghus, when it comes to inheritance,” he says gently, like Sylvain doesn’t know. Like Sylvain’s entire life hadn’t gone the way it has because of how inheritance is determined in Faerghus.

Sylvain swallows. He knows, of _course_ he knows _._ “Yeah but... we’re Gautier,” he says weakly, still shaken by that he’s learned about Glenn, the words like ash on his tongue, parroted phrases he’s been told all his life, “We.. we need to hold the north.”

“And we are Fraldarius, at the right hand of the King,” Rodrigue states deliberately, with the weight Sylvain couldn’t muster for his own words, “With a major crest, Felix...” the older man glances down mournfully, at the floor, “He could have been destined for greatness, at His Majesty’s side. Like Kyphon had done for Loog before him.”

Sylvain shakes his head. It’s so obvious, in hindsight. He knows intimately the weight any crest has on a house and the inheritance of it, especially in Faerghus. A major crest would be all that and amplified. Of _course_ Felix would have inherited Fraldarius. Glenn would have had to manifest a major crest himself to even consider the possibility.

It’s no wonder Sylvain didn’t know Glenn didn’t have a crest. Rodrigue chose not to announce it. It didn’t matter if he did or not - the appearance of the Major Crest of Fraldarius in his youngest son would have overshadowed everything else.

And evidently, it had.

Sylvain clutches the neck of his bottle tight, and brings it up to swallow a large mouthful of whatever is in it. It’s foul and burns as it goes down.

It’s much like the truth, as it turns out.

“Glenn had to know then,” he says after, frantic, pushed forth by an emerging worry, a possibility he’s not sure he wants to give voice, “He was old enough to know that he... he would never govern Fraldarius.”

“He did,” Rodrigue confirms with a nod, “He never complained, or if he did, he never did to me.” He chuckles, “In fact, knowing he didn’t have to inherit drove him to do more to train for knighthood, since he had more time to devote to training instead of learning to manage the land. He was exceptional,” Rodrigue breathes. Six years, Glenn has been dead, and his father is still so _proud_ of him. “So much so... that there was no room to talk about the crest he didn’t have.”

How fortunate, Sylvain can’t help but think, for Glenn. To be able to accomplish so much, and have a father who never spoke aloud about his lack of a crest, allowing everyone around them to simply overlook it in favour of Glenn’s own merits.

How colossally _unfair_.

Would Miklan have grown to be so resentful if their own father could have managed to look beyond the crest to see the man he could have been? Could Miklan have become a knight himself if House Gautier nurtured all their sons and daughters, instead of throwing aside the ones who lacked the right stuff in the blood?

“Did he...” Sylvain falters, hesitant. He can barely say the words, but he has to know. It can’t be true, there’s no way, but he has to be _sure_. “He didn’t... resent Felix?”

“Never,” Rodrigue whispers, looking off into the distance, voice hoarse with long repressed grief, “He loved him.”

The dull ache in Sylvain’s chest flares to life anew.

He knew, of course, that Glenn adored Felix. Felix had always spoken highly of his brother, and despite the teasing, sometimes relentless, that Sylvain had witnessed in their earlier years, that kind of devoted praise from Felix wouldn’t have flowed so freely without reason. Glenn had always been there for Felix when he needed him, and even though he sometimes drove Felix to tears with his teasing, if anyone else caused Felix to cry, Glenn had been right there to make it right. Still, in the wake of what he’s just learned though, Sylvain had to confirm it from their father, just to be sure.

Sylvain huffs quietly, under his breath, the ache settling in his gut, weighing it down like a stone.

Glenn was a good brother. Even without a crest, and having known his little brother would be the one to receive the honour of carrying on the legacy of their house, Glenn had never loved Felix any less.

So Miklan... maybe he was just a rotten person, on top of it all; letting what he lacked define him, inflicting his rage on everything around him - his belongings, his house, his brother.

Still, Glenn had to have felt it, the lack of the crest. Even if Rodrigue and House Fraldarius didn’t pressure him about it, Fraldarius doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Glenn interacted with society, he trained to be a knight, travelled with his father. He attended the Officers’ Academy himself. He can’t have lived his life ignorant of the significance of what he lacked. Duke Fraldarius’ silence regarding Glenn’s crestless status is in itself a statement. He said it himself - he waited, year after year, in hopes it would manifest. That, in itself, tells of its significance to House Fraldarius.

Miklan had turned his frustrations over his crestless status outwards, against the world. Perhaps Glenn had turned that same frustration inwards, and pushed himself to succeed.

Maybe it pushed him to grow up too soon, to take on too much before his time.

Sylvain shakes the thoughts aside, he shouldn’t dwell on that. He can’t know, after all, what Glenn felt about it all, “Your Grace,” he murmurs, “If... If Glenn were here... do you think... he’d... he’d have... been willing to fight and die for Faerghus, knowing Felix was on the other side?”

“If Glenn were here, Sylvain,” the duke says, gravely, “Felix would never have betrayed us.”

Sylvain falls silent, rebuked by his words.

Of course. If Glenn were still here, Felix wouldn’t have become so disillusioned with the code of chivalry, with Faerghus’ customs, the Kingdom’s beliefs. He’d never have fathomed the thought of leaving.

“You and Felix were close, were you not?” the Duke asks, as Sylvain dwells on his thoughts, “Would you have... any idea... what could have pushed him away, such that he wouldn’t confide his doubts to us? To me?”

“...I don’t...” Sylvain shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

It’s not the truth, but it’s also not a lie. Sylvain knows, vaguely, why Felix distanced himself from his father. Felix has never made a secret of his upset with him, over the way Rodrigue responded to Glenn’s death, over the reasons Glenn had died too soon, but he also had never said so plainly his reasons, and Sylvain doesn’t want to say what he doesn’t know.

Besides, telling Rodrigue it’s his fault, when he’s never understood why Felix couldn’t accept Glenn’s death as an honourable event to be proud of, doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not when he’s just lost his second son, today, in a manner that’s arguably worse than what cost him his first.

“Ah. I suppose not,” the duke murmurs, “If it were something we could have known... we would have been able to prevent it.”

“I... well...” Sylvain says, trying to provide something, anything, to answer the duke’s question, “Glenn’s death... it really... it was really difficult for Felix. He was just so... different after the funeral, and nothing we did could... make it better. And then when he went to squire for Dimitri, at the Western Rebellion...”

The duke looks over, with a frown.

“I don’t know what happened,” Sylvain says quietly, “But after that, he never treated His Majesty the same way again. I think whatever is the cause... it started there.”

Rodrigue hums, thoughtful, “The Western Rebellion...” he muses, “At the time, I thought that... Felix was merely rattled by his maiden battle, but... when I started sending him out to handle bandits with my knights in Fraldarius, and later, when you all started taking missions from the Church at the academy... he showed none of the same reactions, and never shared any doubts he may have had in the aftermath of those conflicts,” he shakes his head, “I know he and His Majesty started having... disagreements, afterwards. He used to think the world of His Majesty, you know. Afterwards, well, with Felix’s shift in attitude... I thought it was just the growing pains, the difficulties that come with being a teenager. Goddess knows Glenn hadn’t been an agreeable sort at that age either so...”

Sylvain watches as the duke brings his drink to his lips again, taking a long draught, looking forlornly into the dark.

“It’s clear I...” he murmurs after, wiping his mouth before setting the bottle down again, “I should have looked deeper.”

Sylvain turns away. The duke had never known what he was supposed to be looking for. It’s easy to say he should have looked deeper, back when Felix changed so abruptly, becoming sullen, angry, in response to the tragedies that struck his family. Sylvain doesn’t know what he would have tried to look for, even if he wanted to search for reasons.

“Where did I go wrong, Sylvain?” Rodrigue laments, when Sylvain doesn’t say anything, letting the silence drag on, “What should I have done to prevent Felix from being led so far astray?” he asks, the despairing words of a father who failed to understand his son before it was too late.

Sylvain doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t have that information. He’s not the right person to provide that sort of answer, to a man mourning the sons he’s lost - one to death, and the other to what might have been his own actions, or lack thereof.

So Sylvain says nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha faerghus amirite
> 
> anyways, i'm on my one week break, so I wanted to slam dunk this chapter down before the new year. we're entering the second arc of the story, which is exciting because i wasn't even aware of what the second arc would look like when i started writing this thing lol but we're getting places
> 
> updates look like they're gonna be slow for the next while, this latest clinical rotation is uh, a lot, so i'm doing my best but we're moving slow
> 
> sorry about the word count. i'm bad at words so i write lots of them. i'm frustrated by it too, believe me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in literal years, but somehow this game has dug its roots into me and i can't stop Thinking so here i am writing furiously anyway. Writing isn't my usual activity of fandom engagement, so if I'm committing any fanfiction faux pas regarding tagging or warnings or anything, please let me know.
> 
> Author's Note: 12/30/2020  
> Hey everyone! I made a new twitter for fandom because I felt weird about tweeting my writing on my main account because of what it used to be for and my chaotic tweeting there generally lol so anyways, please follow [@redequilibrium](https://www.twitter.com/redequilibrium) on twitter if you are interested in engaging with me or reading WIPs i post there or just if you wanna be friends, because I'll be tweeting way more about my writing and FE3H on there 😇


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